Final Fantasy XII: History's Chains
by FFNovelist
Summary: A retelling of Final Fantasy XII without Vaan. This is a rewrite of a novelization I finished years ago, so expect several other creative liberties as well.
1. Prologue

It's been exactly five years since I finished my novelization of Final Fantasy XII (February 25, 2008 to May 1, 2011). It was a gift for a friend, so I didn't give it much thought once it was done, but another friend took an interest in it recently, and I discovered that I was embarrassed by the quality when showing it to her. I've decided to try a rewrite, though I can't really promise I'll finish it. Updates should be more frequent than usual, since I revise much faster than I write, but I do plan on adding a few new chapters, so that might slow things down from time to time. I'll let you guys know if I ever go on hiatus.

Just as a reminder, this was originally a collaborative process with the friend I wrote it for, so it isn't a direct novelization of the game. Here are some of the more noteworthy changes I've made:

*Larsa is ten years old, since it makes him more vulnerable and less threatening.

*Ashe is twenty-five years old, since she acts like she's thirty and there's only room for one prodigy in this story.

*Basch has a random back story to liven his character up.

*Ashe and Rasler aren't in love in this version. (I think it gives her more depth, but that's just my opinion.)

*Balthier is his real name; Famran's the fake one.

*The only races in Ivalice are humans, Viera, and Occuria. (No Bangaa, Seeq, Urutan-Yensa, etc.)

*The Bahamut scenes have undergone a serious facelift. Purists will be very unhappy with them.

*I've taken a lot of creative liberties where Larsa's character is concerned.

*The Strahl can fly anywhere, over any type of terrain.

*I changed around which stone is found where (purely for the sake of symbolism).

*It's a bit more political than the game.

*Vossler Azelas has been changed to Azelas Vossler because I used to go to school with a guy named Azelas. No joke.

*Al-Cid has been changed to Al-Mid because two Cids seems repetitive to me, and because a Rozarrian prince is not likely to be given an Archadian name.

*Other "gamey" attributes have been altered to make the story shorter and smoother.

Moving on to the rewrite, here are a few other changes I'm thinking about making:

*I'm going to give each country its own language.

*The Garif and Jahara won't make the final cut. (For that matter, I also wanted to get rid of Rozarria, but I don't think that would work; Rozarria's political influence is too pervasive.) The Garif come across as nothing more than an afterthought, and don't show up anywhere else in the story.

*Vayne could stand to be toughened up a bit. In my quest to make him sympathetic, he mostly just turned out whiny. I'll do what I can.

*The whole narrative approach (mainly the detail in which every character's thoughts are described) still feels a bit juvenile to me. Although, I'm biased against that style in general, so I could just be beating myself up here.

*I can't quite tell which portions of Venat's ramblings are true. Same goes for Gerun. I suppose it doesn't matter much in the long run, but I'll try to clean that up as well.

*I've decided to merge Vaan into Penelo. I hate to admit it, but there's nothing Vaan can do that Penelo can't. This is going to require changes to Penelo's character—mainly replacing her cautious nature with Vaan's thirst for adventure—as well as significant twisting of the plot, particularly in earlier chapters. Maintaining Penelo's naiveté and insecurities is still crucial, though, as her relationship with Larsa will have to remain the same. From there, it's just a matter of assigning some of Vaan's lines and actions to Penelo, and then eliminating what's left.

*The first draft was extensively over-written (181,922 words), especially where Ashe's character was concerned. The main purpose of this rewrite is to give it a good, hard hacking.

That said, on with the new and improved prologue…

 _Prologue_

Another body hit the floor, but Reks spun away from it, deflected a lunge, fought against every blow that clashed off his blade until at last they ceased. His fellow soldiers raided the bodies—weapons, armor, medical supplies—but Reks only heaved, wheezed. So many had died tonight—so much time and effort and deception over a piece of land Archadia may not even deign to keep. It wasn't that he felt no malice for the Archadians—their rivalry with Rozarria was petty back at the first and folly here at the last—but the fighting was wearisome at a spiritual level; soldiers barely older than he, killed for a cause not half as just as his.

A haze of light seeped out from beneath a corpse—just at the edge of his sight—and he shouted before he could even register his own voice:

"Get away!"

He leaped, tackled his nearest comrade. The burst ripped around them, singing his boots and throwing him clear of the battleground.

He woke against the stone wall of a walkway some fifteen feet from the platform where the guards intercepted him. Groans sounded in the near distance, but he could see only the exposed blade before him, engraved with the name Azelas Vossler. The captain knelt before him, a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Reks swallowed hard—he was every bit as young as he looked, and this would only prove to his superiors what a tyro he really was.

"Are you alright?" Azelas asked.

"Huh?" was all he could manage in reply.

"You took quite a hit."

"Captain…what happened?"

"Magicite, by the looks of it. You're lucky to be alive."

"The others?"

Azelas rose, extending a hand. "Some burns, but no losses. You saved their lives."

Reks accepted the lift and wobbled to his feet. Nothing remained of the Archadian soldier who detonated the stone, and pieces of his fallen comrades had been blown into a ring around the platform, but the Dalmascan force remained intact, albeit bloodied and disoriented. Archadia didn't usually entrust magicite to low-level soldiers—this was an alarming turn of events.

"They'd do the same for me," Reks said, throwing his chest out and straightening as best he could.

"We're at a dangerous disadvantage," Azelas replied, and then, calling out to the others as they gathered nearby: "Keep watch for magicite. They'll give their lives to keep us from the king."

They answered in the affirmative, but it would be a moment before all wounds were bandaged and the troop could continue on. Dalmasca's alliance with the island country of Bhujerba provided it with vast quantities of magicite, but most of the stones—certainly the most potent ones—powered fleets of the sea and sky; little remained for ground troops.

"As though they didn't already have the numbers," Azelas muttered.

"Artillery is an empty threat in this battle," Reks replied. "Sure, they'll die to keep us from the king, but we'll die to free him."

Azelas smiled, but Reks could see little joy in it. "How old are you?" he asked.

Reks nodded. "Seventeen, sir."

"My gods, are we that desperate?"

And a deep voice cut in, blunted by a Landisian accent: "Archadia takes them at fourteen."

Azelas turned to face his fellow Dalmascan knight—tall, hulking, Landisian by birth, but an infamous force against the Empire from the war's very beginning: Basch Ronsenburg.

"For training," Azelas told him, "not battle." And then, to Reks: "Don't you have parents who'd fill your place better?"

Reks shook his head. "Both my parents are dead, sir. I have a little sister to take care of."

Basch huffed. "Has all the world gone dark?"

"The battle isn't lost yet, Ronsenburg," Azelas answered. "We need to keep moving."

With the company back on their feet, they continued across the platform and into the dank tunnels beyond. Torches lit the walls at a despairing cadence, and the stones were slick with mold. The fall of the fortress at Nalbina last month tolled the destruction of the greater part of Dalmasca's forces—so many killed here in these very tunnels—and the air still carried the smell of battle even with the bodies gone and the blood washed away.

Reks's troop was motley in composition—primarily Dalmascan and Nabradian, as their countries shared a common heritage and mutually intelligible languages, and had united recently in a marriage alliance. Captain Vossler served Lady Ashelia, Princess of Dalmasca, and Captain Ronsenburg served her husband, Lord Rasler, Prince of Nabradia—or he did until three months ago, when the prince fell in battle against the Empire. Now both captains served the princess, and she had dispatched them tonight to aid her father, the king.

A few among their number, however, were from Landis, and ought to have known that the Empire would not stop, would never stop. Perhaps Nabradia had no choice but to pin themselves down, but the fortress would again be a tomb in short order, no matter its defenses. Basch seemed the only one among them who acknowledged this. In fairness, though, Basch was unwell—Reks knew it as well as any.

The war first erupted in his homeland, thanks to false information set forth by Archadian agents. Convinced the republic had aligned with Archadia, Rozarria invaded—and Archadia cited the unprovoked violence as justification for its own invasion. Basch fought for the resistance until it fell, and fled then to Nabradia, where he found his way into the prince's security—only to watch the royal city of Nabudis fall to Archadia in a hail of fire, and with it Nabradia's royal family, both the current king and the future one.

They had all suffered, of course—all lost pride and faith and family in this war—but Basch was a ruin of a man, and if half of what was whispered of Nabudis was true, Reks didn't begrudge him his cynicism. Reks had heard the stories—many stories—but the one that summed it all up told of how the survivors had run toward the invading army, far preferring the Archadians to what lay in the ruins of their former capital. Half a million lost in a single battle, and most of them civilians. Reks couldn't imagine it—no one could imagine it, even though it was all anyone could speak of.

Reks's homeland of Dalmasca, which stood at the exact geographical center of the conflict, had been set adrift, at the mercy of history's restless tides, and it wasn't long before Archadia took Nalbina. And here they stood in counterattack; here they ran, blades bared, in search of their captive king—the only one remaining to the world. They surprised a pair of guards at the end of the tunnel and slew them with little effort—nineteen remained in their company, though they had set out with thirty.

"They should be here," Azelas said, seizing a torch from the doorway and stepping into the room. It was long—a grand chamber—but devoid of furniture save for a few splinters littered along the walls.

"Something's wrong," Basch agreed.

Reks spread out with the other soldiers, checking quickly out a window before posting himself beside it.

"They can't have finished already," said Azelas.

"Who's to say they even intended to see the treaty signed?" Basch replied. "The bodies in this fortress weren't even cold when Archadia came forward with their terms of _peace_." He spat the last word out with a sneer. "All they really needed was the royal seal."

Azelas had ventured to the end of the room and checked the passageway beyond for guards. "Two paths," he reported.

"Split up?' Basch asked.

Azelas nodded. "And meet back here." He gestured to the soldiers on the left side of the room. "You all with me." And then to the others—Reks included. "You with Captain Ronsenburg."

A flurry of affirmatives answered them, and the soldiers launched into action—out the door and in opposite directions, Azelas and Basch at their heads. The hallway was dim, only the light of the moon at its end, and Reks nearly slipped on the slime beneath his feet, but kept his grip on his sword. Nalbina was under Archadian occupation—they were quite at home here by now—but they could not push beyond the border in peace until King Raminas surrendered.

The clang of steel echoed behind them—boots skidding, voices calling out—Azelas's group had met resistance.

"Turn back!" Basch commanded, yet as they did so, an arrow pierced the back of the soldier beside Reks.

Another clash—blade-on-blade—and Reks turned once more to fend off an Archadian sword as it came down on him. They were funneling out of the chamber his group was meant to inspect—they were funneling out of both chambers, and more of them from the long room the troop had only just deserted. The company was divided—ambushed.

Reks forced his blade through the belly of his opponent just as another of his comrades fell. He struck at the attacker before he could pull his sword from the young soldier's side, and struggled onward, Imperials dropping in his path.

Basch had vanished. Someone called out for him—another recruit Reks recognized from Rabanastre—only to be cut down. The roar of magicite erupted at the far end of the passage—Azelas's group—and the racket there fell silent. Reks felled another Imperial, and turned then on the one beside him as he claimed the last of Reks's companions.

And then there was darkness—the dripping of water in the distance, an echo alone on the stone.

Reks looks behind him. "Captain?" And then to the near chamber where Basch had led them. "Captain?"

Silence again. And then muffled voices—a grunt, and the slicing of steel. Reks bolted after it, into the near room, around a corner with in it.

A table laid upturned there, blue and gray in the moonlight, and a splintered chair littered the floor beside it. And there sat King Raminas—old, withered—slumped in his own chair with a pair of dead knights flanking him. He was bleeding.

Reks ran to him. "Your Highness?"

He was dead.

And a pain struck Reks then—a sleek intrusion, sharp and practiced, which slid out from between his ribs as deftly as it had punctured them. He gasped, gripped the wound, and one leg gave out, dropping him to a knee. Wheezing, he clanked his sword against the stone floor—leaned on it.

"A peace treaty…"

The voice was familiar, but distant—low, practiced, Landisian.

"He meant to sell the very blood of Dalmasca."

He walked around Reks, in front of him, the sword of a Dalmascan knight glinting in the moonlight before Reks's dimming eyes, slick with his own blood, engraved with the name Basch Ronsenburg.


	2. Chapter I

_I._

Two years after King Raminas's assassination, Penelo turned the same age Reks was—the _last_ age Reks was. She stood in Migelo's kitchen punching bread dough on the day of the consul's arrival— _kneading_ it, if anyone asked—and watched the great gleaming airships ease along their courses through the sky overhead, Dalmascan flags waved well beneath the colors of Archadia.

A calamity more than a tragedy, that her brother had died for this—that the justice he gave the king could do nothing to save the kingdom. The Archadian forces left all pretenses of peace by the wayside after the betrayal at the treaty-signing, and they met no resistance as they resumed their advance into Dalmasca, toward the royal city of Rabanastre. Unable to fight them and unwilling to welcome them, the princess took her own life on the night of their arrival.

And Penelo was abandoned, along with the rest of the city—along with the rest of the country—and now Archadian was spoken in the streets daily, armored guards posted and patrolling, pale faces intermingled among the gold-skinned populace. So much, and so hard, and so fast that for that first full year of the occupation, Penelo had jumped at every shadow, and been afraid to close her eyes each night, for what the world might look like when she opened them. Migelo was always telling her that Dalmasca was the past and Archadia the future, but Migelo was complacent, servile—rushing and fretting and preparing for their conqueror's welcome gala—and when he burst into the kitchen that morning as Penelo kneaded dough, his only outrage was directed at her:

"You've been stealing again!" He held up a fist full of copper coins—the ones Penelo had stashed in a drawer earlier when Migelo almost caught her counting them. "What happens if they catch you? We need you to be there for us, Penelo. You're no good to anyone if you're locked away in some dungeon."

She slapped the loaf on a pan and covered it with a towel. "Oh, what? Am I the leader now?"

"You're the oldest—they look up to you!"

"We're orphans," Penelo growled. "First thing we learn is we gotta watch out for ourselves. Hey! What are you doing!?"

"I'm keeping it," he replied, sliding the coins through his palm and into the pouch at his belt. "Aren't you always saying that this money belongs to the people of Dalmasca? And the Imperials stole it from us, so it's only fair that we take it back? Aren't I a Dalmascan?"

"I never said anything about taking it back from me," Penelo choked.

Migelo was a stout man, past fifty but not yet bent by time, and while the gentleness of his tone could not achieve any semblance of intimidation, it somehow weighed all the heavier for the air of disappointment underneath it. "I know how hard it is to see them in our city every day, but they're getting through their lives the same as we're getting through ours. They're only following their orders."

Penelo clapped the flour from her hands. "So I should be angry with the high-born jerk moving into our royal palace instead?" she asked.

"Our palace has been empty for two years now," Migelo replied. "And you should be careful what you say with all those soldiers around listening for the Resistance."

"The Resistance is the only hope we have left."

"And what kind of leaders would they produce? Would you really want them at the head of our country?"

Penelo struggled against the knot in her apron's strings and at last flailed it off and onto the floor. "I'd rather be ruled by a Dalmascan terrorist than an Archadian one."

Migelo straightened himself, but thought better of whatever he had to say, and instead he softened, leaned against the thick wooden counter, and spoke through a sigh: "Penelo, I know this isn't right. I know Reks gave his life to avoid this—and so did all the others. But it's what we have now. It's all we have."

Penelo crossed her arms and turned half away from him, eyes on the floor, one foot scuffing circles in the flour there.

"Now, you don't have to work at the fete tonight," Migelo went on, "but at least come to the consul's introduction. He's not a bad person."

"How can you say?" Penelo shot back, tone low. "You've only met him once."

"And he was very cordial."

"They're born that way."

Migelo smiled. "He even said he didn't feel right living in someone else's palace."

Her eyes lifted at this, though her expression did not lift with them. "How did he feel about us throwing a party for him?"

"We don't exactly have a choice," said Migelo, "and I doubt he does, either. Now, come on. We're going to be late. Or are you going to stand here and watch dough rise?"

Penelo knocked her heel against the cabinet beneath her, then jerked herself forward and into motion, following Migelo out of the shop and into the market beyond. The orphans of Archadia's war swarmed on the streets, mostly running errands for Migelo, picking up packages and relaying sundries to the palace guards, though a pair of them scurried up to Penelo when they spotted her, and walked with her to the square where the new consul was to be introduced.

Penelo never volunteered to play big sister, but she was one of the older orphans in Rabanastre—funny to think that anyone would look up to her, would look to her for comfort, let alone guidance, but there it was. Always at least a few faces at the door, looking for a meal, wanting to hear a story or tell one. Her answers to their questions had grown automated, distant—all the little ones liked to know about Rabanastre before the war, about the battles and alliances, about her brother, the great soldier whose testimony sentenced the Kingslayer to death. The years had borne legends: the story of Princess Ashelia's wedding grew grander with each retelling, she more beautiful and he more handsome, and Nabudis a fallen paradise.

What the children didn't know—what they didn't seem to realize just yet—was that the war was far from over. Rozarria's attacks had ceased and its forces gathered for restructuring, but this was only because Archadia now held more land and the more advantageous borders. Ownership of Dalmasca brought with it trading treaties with Bhujerba, a small island with as many magicite mines as Rozarria's entire empire. The city of Rabanastre sat at the center of Dalmasca's longest and widest stretch of desert, surrounded by a verdant oasis that was fed from three sides by the River Lete—a hub for transport and military strength that did little to bolster Dalmasca against the strength of Archadia, but now gave Rozarria second thoughts about pressing forward.

The children could not remember the war, and so could accept that they had lost it, but Penelo lived on the penumbra of a hovering shadow—conquered by one empire for the sole sake of waging war against another. For all the ill she wished on Archadia, she trembled at the prospect of it succumbing to Rozarria.

Despite its arid surroundings, Rabanastre flowed with water—in streams, in fountains, and in countless clusters of greenery that remained otherwise a rarity for the region. Whimsical Dalmascan architecture sprung from behind the hanging gardens that surrounded the city, strong and imposing in the daylight, yet graceful and lax in the dark, and people glutted the cobbled plaza before the palace where the consul was to speak.

Penelo and Migelo pressed themselves into a niche among the spectators and joined them in raising their hands and squinting their eyes against the gleam of the sun-basted rooftops. Noon quickly approached, the palace's arches and peaks glinting with light, shedding a glow over the entire grounds in a painfully bright depiction of Dalmasca's former glory. Archadian politicians and nobles lined the steps leading to the palace gate, their prim dress in deep contrast the laidback desert attire of the citizenry.

Several officers stood between the diplomats and the crowd, and four armored figures kept close watch in all directions, flanking a well-dressed man with a war-hardened countenance who Penelo could only assume was the new consul. Though the exact titles and positions of all the others assembled on the palace steps eluded her, she did recognize Lord Gregoroth, the chairman of the Archadian Senate, and several others who appeared to be Senators or perhaps representatives of the war council as well.

At last, an Archadian man approached the podium and began to describe—in Dalmascan—the events leading up to the consul's appointment. He did not mention that Archadia started the war—only that Archadia ceased its hostilities in light of the king's murder and, apparently out of pity and with hopes of providing solace and security, offered Dalmasca "generous" peace terms.

Penelo and Migelo watched motionlessly as the prince gazed out at his domain, eyes dark and mouth still, impervious to the mob's whispers and sneers. He was undeniably handsome—lean and tall, with thick black hair and murky brown eyes—but the troubled look on his face lent a grave shadow to his expression, almost sinister in nature. He looked bored, surveying the ocean of people with passing interest and clenching his jaw as though it physically pained him to put up with the ceremony.

Glancing downward, Penelo realized that she could no longer bring herself to look at him. She pressed her knees together and rubbed her left forearm with her right hand. Migelo put a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Can we go now?" Penelo replied.

"They just started."

She laughed unevenly and shook her head. "Oh, what's wrong with me?"

"It's alright," Migelo assured her.

As the man at the podium attempted to introduce the prince, the crowd began to sway with anger, slurs, oaths, and cries of rebellion ringing out.

"Order!" the man shouted, his Archadian accent received with disdain. "We will have order!"

None came until the armed soldiers surrounding the crowd stepped inward, pressing the civilians together. The man at the podium paused, settled, and at last continued on: "I give you your new consul: His Excellency Lord Vayne Carudas Solidor, son and heir of His Imperial Excellency Emperor Gramis, and commandant of Archadia's western—Your Excellency?"

A unified gasp surged through the crowd, briefly silencing their groans and taunts, for their consul had shaken his head in dismay and pushed the announcer away from the podium, instead taking to it himself and speaking.


	3. Chapter II

_II._

"People of Rabanastre—is it with hatred you look upon your consul? With hatred you look upon the Empire?" Lord Vayne's voice boomed over the square, his Dalmascan effortless and somehow softened by the accent of his homeland. He was answered with shouts of distain and a few flying vegetables. "There was little point in asking," he muttered. "But know this: I harbor no idle hopes of frustrating that hatred, nor shall I ask your fealty—that is the due of your fallen king, and rightly so. King Raminas loved his people. He strove to bring you peace. His was a rule worthy of your devotion."

This brought silence over the crowd, a settling of movement that seemed to render the bustle of the city around them still as well. Vayne leaned over the podium for a moment, eyes scanning the assembly with a slow sincerity.

"Even now," he said, "he remains among you, protecting you; even in death, his ardor for the peace and will of Dalmasca could not falter. I will not ask for your forgiveness for what Dalmasca has befallen at the hands of my family, for I know I am undeserving—and were I in your position, I surely could not grant it so easily. Nor will I ask for your respect, for I understand that it must be earned, and birth alone does not warrant the assumption of achievement. I ask only that you do your king honor. Together, let us embrace the peace His Majesty so desired.

"Two years now divide us from war's bitter end, yet still its shadow looms—a chain only you may cast off. Achieve but this one thing, and your hatred of me and of the Empire will not grieve me. I will endure your resentment and your censure. I will defend Dalmasca. Here I will pay my debt—I swear it now. Lord Raminas and Lady Ashelia may be gone, but they stand ever at the side of their people. In honoring peace, you do honor to their memory and to Dalmasca. What I ask, I ask plain. My hopes now rest with you."

A swift Archadian bow, and he walked away, his four armored bodyguards close behind. The nobles and diplomats assembled on the stairwell shifted, hesitated, and gradually followed him past the palace gate. And then—very slowly—a few claps sounded. A few others joined in, and a muffled murmur swept across the square as the spectators dispersed.

Penelo crossed her arms and gazed downward, a few children scampering past her. Just like Archadia to veil its consuming might with humility—with a handsome face and eloquent words. The Resistance had been silent in the weeks leading up to this day—no cryptic messages posted about town, no cloaked figures walking the streets at night. With the city's heightened security, Penelo wondered if they had fled to Bhujerba to plan Vayne's demise—or if they had been slaughtered in silence, wiped clean under dark of night.

"You should come tonight," Migelo said at her side, and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep from rolling them.

"And serve booze to all the high-rollers?"

He shook his head. "They're just trying to rebuild Dalmasca."

"For their own use," Penelo shot back.

Migelo slackened and turned, heading into an alley that bypassed the market and connected to his shop. "This isn't Dalmasca anymore," he continued as Penelo followed along. "It's another province of Archadia—whether you can accept it or not."

And the seclusion of the alley dissolved a barrier within her, a flare erupting against the shade: "Don't you get it, Migelo? As long as the Archadians are pushing us around, Reks died for nothing!" She drew her hands to her forehead, yellow braids waving at her back. "You're always so nice," she said. "I never figured out how to do that. But don't think it means they respect you for it—that you're allowed to live the way you want. You just haven't said no to the right question yet. No to the taxes they'll put on your business, or the soldiers they'll want you to feed. No to the life they tell you is all you're allowed to have—and they won't understand when you're not grateful. Trust me."

Migelo stood still, one hand on his hip. "I can be good or I can be happy? Is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you shouldn't let them make the choice for you," Penelo replied.

"What makes you think that I am?"

Penelo paused. Migelo stepped closer to her.

"There are quiet ways to rebel, Penelo. There are ways to resist without wielding swords."

Penelo blinked owlishly, her fingers loose and cold at her sides. Migelo was as cordial with the soldiers as he was with the merchants, in business with Archadia just the same as anyone else, a network of orphans coming and going at his feet all day. He had a good name in town, trustworthy and careful to hew to Imperial laws, and if Penelo had noticed certain things here and there—supplies in the storeroom that never seem to sell so much as disappear, or compartments in the ships she's helped load that seemed an odd size, and inconveniently tucked-away—well, she never dwelled on them.

"You're—" She didn't finish.

"You're the best thief I've ever seen," Migelo continued, "certainly the best in the city. But you squander it, picking Imperial pockets for fun—and now you complain that the rest of us are complacent?"

"Migelo—"

"Do you want to put that talent to good use? Could you keep quiet about it if I told you how?"

She was nodding by instinct, stepping after him, hands up in a grasping, pleading gesture, but Migelo walked on, down the alley, toward the shop.

"Yes!" Penelo said. "Tell me what you need. You know I can get it."

Migelo shook his head. "I know you can, but you're too volatile."

"Passionate!" she insisted. "Passionate for the cause!"

"And eager to brag about it?"

"No! No, I can keep quiet."

Migelo unlocked the back door of his shop and swung it open, meeting Penelo's eyes as she approached. "Not a word?"

She shook her head, braids wagging. "Not one word."

"Not even if it involves the Dusk Shard?"

Her mouth opened, but no sound escaped. The Dusk Shard—chiefest jewel among Dalmasca's national treasure: a centuries-old gift to the royal family given by King Raithwall himself, ruler of a bygone dynasty and forger of the legendary Galtean Alliance. At the end of his long rule, the Dynast King left three relics signifying decent from House Raithwall: the Dawn Shard to his elder daughter, the first queen of Nabradia, the Dusk Shard to his younger daughter, the first queen of Dalmasca, and the Midlight Shard to take with him to his tomb in the desert sands.

The stone had been secreted away when the war began, and no word of it whispered since Archadia's invasion. Penelo's eyes widened even as the noon sun shone down into the alley where she stood.

"Reclaiming it, of course," Migelo went on, passing through the door ahead of her. "For Dalmasca."

Penelo hopped after him, down the steps and into the storeroom. The smell of bread wafted in from the kitchen on heated gusts.

"You know where it is?"

"The royal treasury," said Migelo. "A hidden room on the third floor of the palace. It's a wonder the consul's security hasn't found it already."

"I can get it!" Penelo twittered. "I'll do it during the fete tonight! That'll be our in!"

Migelo smiled, busying himself with a crowbar and a crate. "It's already our in. You're the final piece of the plan, Penelo. Are you sure you can handle it?"

She grinned.


	4. Chapter III

_III._

The Archadian-style servants' uniform issued to Penelo that night allowed little breathing room, but its skirt provided sufficient cover for the knife Reks taught her to use so many years ago. By dusk, she had joined the rest of Migelo's employees in the palace kitchen, organizing supplies, plating hors d'oeuvres, and pouring champagne. Once the festivities had begun, the first footman handed her a platter of triangular white cakes and sent her upstairs to the banquet hall after a line of at least a dozen other servers.

The hall had been decked for the occasion with bursting bouquets of desert flowers and miles of silk and taffeta. Cushions piled in the corners—Dalmascans sat on the floor even for formal occasions—while candelabras lit long tables of food along the walls and Archadian-style settees gathered in pools of light at a haloed cadence across the floor. Ribbons streamed from the chandelier above the grand ballroom, scarlet curtains draped at the edges of the entryway from the banquet hall, and the bodies that swayed there epitomized Archadian culture more thoroughly and effortlessly than all the food and music combined.

Only those carrying water goblets were to enter the ballroom, but Penelo hovered at the arched entry, peering beyond the tasseled curtains whenever circumstance allowed. Imperial women had their own sort of elegance; careful, complicated, and very expensive—too much for a curveless desert girl accustomed to bells and flowers to process. The men dressed more sleekly, their tailcoats and cravats sedate by comparison, but Penelo wondered how they could stand the Dalmascan heat in so many layers. She had just caught sight of an Archadian dignitary dancing with his pregnant Dalmascan wife when one of the palace maids seized her elbow and burdened her with a pair of empty platters.

"Get to work," she growled, and took Penelo's tray of cakes and pushed her away from the ballroom.

Penelo huffed, and carried the empty trays toward the kitchen slowly, eyes sliding over the crowd. War mongering aside, Archadians generally refrained from uncultivated activities, though a few of them had ventured to try the Dalmascan dishes served, and Penelo enjoyed the faces they made in response.

"At least you know you can save on the spices," she had told Migelo the previous week, and he had chastised her with a barely-concealed grin.

But her bread was popular—several hundred loaves of it had run out before twilight turned to evening, the Imperials spreading only the barest amounts of lentils and peppers and spiced paneer over it to dilute the sauces down to their liking. She spoke enough Archadian to hear several of guests advise their friends against liberal indulgence.

"There will be more Archadian fare along in a moment," one of them said. "They keep the food coming, if nothing else."

And Penelo held back her sneer, but refused to take it as a compliment.

From a distance, she spied Migelo chatting with the consul, apparently with great joy: formality surrendered to warm smiles and loose laughter. When Migelo offered his hand to shake, Vayne clasped it in both of his. He was an Imperial prince—Vayne—the only one left to the Solidor family, and his father had spared no expense on his security. The royal guard stood posted throughout the room—one of their number always at the consul's side—and all four of them hidden behind full suits of armor, faceless and distant, a near-impenetrable wall of living steel between any threat of insurrection and the House they were bound to serve.

Migelo made fleeting eye-contact with Penelo before returning to the kitchen, and Penelo wound her way through the crowds, keeping a wary eye on the guards. With the first flight of stairs behind her, she abandoned her empty trays on the landing and turned away from the kitchen. Down the halls, past the servants' quarters—and there was the staircase that bypassed the foyer, exactly where Migelo said she would find it. If anyone saw her, the uniform would offer a valid enough excuse.

"Keep your head up," Migelo had told her. "Pretend you have a right to be there, and if anyone stops you, just say you're lost."

The blade was warm against her thigh—just in case.

She reached the third floor in due time, though the echoes of the palace did little to soothe her nerves. The halls seemed damp, though they were dry as bone—they seemed to drip, to resonate, the ghosts of their former inhabitants wafting and creaking within the stones. Every shadow appeared an image of the murdered king, every sound a sob of the listless princess.

Migelo had spoken of a portrait of the princess in this hallway, but so far Penelo passed only kings and queens of antiquity—she feared distantly that the painting in question had been destroyed upon the princess's death. Servants had stolen the bed sheets on which she died, still stained with the remaining poison that spilled from her cup as she collapsed, and tossed them into the crowds, where they were shredded beyond recognition. What else might they have taken that night, or on the following night, when the troops arrived at Rabanastre's gates and Dalmasca surrendered without terms?

Her fears snapped away in an instant—there were the blue eyes, the long brown hair: Princess Ashelia, barely five years old. Migelo had not said it was an outdated portrait. Penelo paused, chest sunken, and backed away a step before again drawing near and laying a steadying hand against the wall beside the picture. She had not even existed then—the years when Dalmasca thrived, when a royal child could smile, and a king could spare his thoughts on having her painted. There were happy years, certainly, in Penelo's own youth, but they seemed shrouded now: memories of a different time, formed when Dalmasca was a different place.

She drew in a breath, and tilted the painting aside. There was the stone—a slightly darker shade than the others. She pressed it in, and slid the painting back over it. Now to the windowsill across from the picture, as Migelo had instructed. She ran her hands along the sculpted stone of the sill, a beautiful swirl of rich plum shades, the air perfumed with jasmine and desert olive from the gardens outside. Guests took the air in the courtyard there, the marble fountain illuminated by glowing magicite of varying colors. A _crack_ , and fireworks laced the sky in intricate bursts of flame, gasps and sighs floating up from the party. Penelo pressed down on the center stone of the windowsill, and it sunk in with a low scrape. Behind her, one of the large marble floor tiles shook from its place and lowered beneath its neighbor, revealing a ladder that granted passage to a dimly lit chamber below. One last look at the painting, and Penelo descended into the glowing haze.

A wide and winding chamber expanded at the bottom, filled with treasures and artifacts, lit by the faint glow magicite ore that shimmered in flecks and veins in the walls. Box upon box of jewels cluttered the floor, some loose and some crafted into bracelets or necklaces or rings or tiaras. So, too, were there sacks of coins about the room, and statues, and ribbon-bound bundles of letters, along with countless other curiosities—Rozarrian rugs, Archadian wines, a Nabradian tea set arranged on top of its silk-lined case as though ready for use.

The Dusk Shard, a dark rock cut of a larger host, sat on a velvet cushion of rich blue, boxed in spotless glass and held high on a silver filigree pedestal. Penelo looked it over, expecting a trap or alarm of some kind, though Migelo had not mentioned any such thing. She laid her fingertips on either side of the glass case and lifted it—silence, peace. With a crisp little smile, she set the glass aside and at last took up the stone, though she struggled in vain to determine its color in the low light: Black? Possibly shades of blue?

"Quite a performance."

Penelo spun. The voice was distinctively Archadian. A tall man leaned against the back wall of the chamber, sharp-eyed, golden-haired, staring at her with a deer-like gaze of criticism. A sword hung sheathed at his hip, and Penelo's hand trembled as she resisted reaching for her knife.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

The Archadian tilted his head. "Let's put it this way: if all the world is truly a stage, I'm the leading man. Now why don't you just hand over the rock so I won't have to hurt you?"

Penelo drew the knife. "I'm taking this back for Dalmasca," she told him. "It belongs to me."

"Yes," he replied with a smile. "And once I take it from you, it will belong to me."

"Haven't you taken enough from us? This is all my country has left—I'm not just giving it up to some Archadian riffraff!"

"Well, then how about some Vieran riffraff?"

Delicate footsteps sounded behind her, accompanied by minute scratching sounds, and she spun again. The woman at her back was tall, beautiful, expressionless—and cutting off her only escape. A Viera—all but mythical; Penelo had never seen one in person, her knife going lax in her fingers as she marveled at the high, slender ears atop her head, coated with silky white fur and tipped in black. Her skin was even darker than Penelo's, and her hair even lighter: silvery white, and plaited loosely at either side of her face. She had a pearl-like sheen to her, her eyes a black-rimmed crimson in the low light, and she met Penelo's speechlessness with inquisitive silence.

"Meet my leading lady," the Archadian explained. "Francesca here is quite impatient when it comes to humans."

The Viera strode airily onward, forcing Penelo back until she stood at the Archadian's side. She smelled of ferns and lilies and fresh running water.

"You don't seem too worried," the girl stammered.

"I'm not withholding her prey," he replied.

The Viera came to a halt before them and glared at Penelo intently. "Don't make this difficult."

Penelo paused, surveying the room for any manner of exit. Finally, it dawned on her: "You're, uh—you're not the consul's guards, are you?"

The Archadian rolled his eyes, and the Viera slowly began to draw her sword. Penelo jumped back against a large statue beside her, and it fell to the floor with a horrendous clank, metallic shudders sounding all through the room. A few shouts followed—the guards down the hall—and the two intruding thieves readied themselves for an ambush.

Penelo, meanwhile, scampered away with the Dusk Shard, leaving the dust of the ladder rungs to settle in her wake.


	5. Chapter IV

_IV._

Several frantic soldiers crossed the end of the hallway as Penelo scrambled down it, but if they saw her, they paid no mind, rushing past the hall and down the stairs with swords drawn. She fled in the opposite direction, passing through a sitting room and a large antechamber before skidding to a stop at the center of a bedroom equipped with an ornate balcony. A bridge loomed a few yards away, visible from the window. Tucking the Dusk Shard into her collar, she vaulted the balcony's railing and swung out against the smooth stone walls of the palace, balancing on a ledge. It was then that the thieves arrived on the balcony.

"Come on, kid!" the Archadian called. "Just hand it over and we'll leave you alone."

"I told you: it's mine!"

The ground gave a sudden shake, and the violence of it nearly shook Penelo from the wall. The Dusk Shard dropped down onto the bridge. Another tremor shook the palace, this one accompanied by the roar of a distant explosion, and Penelo clung to the stones before her, chest against the wall, while the thieves shifted their eyes upwards. An enormous shadow blocked out the moon overhead: the _Ifrit_ , flagship of Rabanastre's air brigade.

"Impeccable timing, Vayne," the Archadian muttered, and his partner turned away from the airship to face him.

"He saw us coming?"

"No…" He leaned over the curled railing that guarded the edge of the balcony. "He saw _them_ coming."

Penelo followed his gaze to the garden beneath the bridge, and gasped out a laugh. Chaos spread below them in a hail of fire and clashing steel, the Dalmascan Resistance mounting and offensive against the Imperial guard posted outside the palace. Guests fled out of a door in the distance, Archadian soldiers ushering them to safety while Resistance fighters shattered windows and stormed the first floor. However, Vayne's security had seized control of the fray—Dalmascan airships hovered above, scattering any gathering of rebels with smoke bombs and flashes of magicite.

Penelo dropped her hands to the ledge where her feet once stood, and from there dropped down onto the bridge, gleaning a shout from the Archadian thief.

"Hey! Get back here!"

She grabbed the Dusk Shard once more and took off running. The thieves scaled the wall and dropped down onto the bridge as well, giving chase as soon as they hit the cobblestones, while the fleet raged on overhead and soldiers came to blows on the ground.

The high wooden doors at the southern end of the bridge had been locked amid the chaos, and Penelo faltered for only a moment before turning to the side in search of another escape route. There stood a low wall along the edges of the bridge, carved of blue-tinged stone, which Penelo mounted easily, but the nearest platform—the roof of an ornate gazebo below—proved a daunting distance to fall.

"Come here…"

It was the thief again, approaching cautiously from behind her, his hand extended.

Penelo stepped backwards, setting her heel on the rim of the wall. "Shut up!"

"No, really." His eyes turned urgent. "Come here."

"What?" Penelo turned and found one of the fleet's smaller crafts preparing to launch a missile at the gazebo below.

The Archadian thief cursed as the strike landed its mark with a roar of fire and a hail of crumbled stone. When the dust cleared, Penelo was dangling from the side of the nearly-obliterated bridge, her right hand clutching the Dusk Shard while the thief gripped her left. He lay face down on the jagged edge, grasping her forearm and dragging her up.

"Let go of me!" she shouted.

"Keep this up and I will!" he replied.

"Pull me up!"

"Give me the magicite!"

"Pull me up first!"

"Oh." He turned his eyes from Penelo to the incoming strike behind her. "Not good."

This attack hit a fair distance from them, but nevertheless sent a shudder through the bridge. The Archadian slipped forward, Penelo dropping and then jerking to a halt. Francesca now sat carefully on the ruined bridge, holding tight to her partner's legs.

The thief glanced behind him. "Nice catch."

Straightening her mouth in to a grim line, Francesca took hold of his hips and yanked him up into her lap. Penelo stumbled upward, scraping her feet against the dust and stone, only to fall face down, Fran's knee hooked over the back of her neck, her calf cushioned beneath her throat. The Archadian got to his feet and wrested the stone from Penelo, and Francesca bolted after him, bouncing the girl into a roll as she straightened her leg and pushed off from it.

Their flight didn't last long, however, for a small Imperial troop met them at the end of the bridge and gave chase. Penelo, already sprawled on the cobblestone walkway, feigned unconsciousness until the mob had passed.

A pile of rubble had replaced the locked turret at the near end of the bridge, and the thieves negotiated it with nimble feet, leading the guards to a secluded corner of the palace courtyard where they split up. Fran hopped onto a first floor balcony while her companion ran straight into a wall, only to mount it with a single step, flip over the soldiers' heads, and land at their backs with sword drawn. He then attacked the soldiers that had followed Fran—they stood dumbfounded, staring after her as she leaped—and Fran dropped from the balcony as quickly as she had mounted it, whipping two knives from her sides and dismantling the soldiers who had gone after her partner.

Both troops were taken from behind by the thief they had not anticipated facing, and Penelo marveled at the restraint the pair practiced—avoiding lethal force, more focused on a swift escape. With many of the soldiers ailing or unconscious, Penelo jumped into the chaos, tackling Francesca and knocking the gem right out of its hiding place within her cleavage. Her fellow thief threw Penelo to the side, but rather than take up the fight, all three jumped into the nearby fountain where the stone had landed.

The splashing rendered the task more difficult than time would allow, and the moment Penelo recovered the stone, two more Archadian squads appeared—one on the ground to corner the thieves, and one on the balcony to ensnare them.

The water stilled, Fran rising to her feet and the Archadian leaning back on his wrists.

"Curtain call," he groaned.

And Penelo sighed, but took advantage of her position—crouched down, back turned—and tucked the stone safely away in her uniform.

The guards shackled them and led them into the courtyard, where captured members of the Resistance now faced the same doom. Penelo studied the assembly—merchants, gardeners, carpenters; only a few genuine fighters among them—and her heart sank at the dismal throng, the ruin to which Dalmasca had been reduced. Even those whom she had always thought most polite to the Archadians stood bound at sword point, and her only consolation came in Migelo's absence among them.

Fran drew stares as the Imperials ushered her into line—sleek and strong and silent, a living specimen of what Rabanastre's people had only ever seen in books. The guard captain studied her as she took her place among the rebels, and she returned his gaze with serene indifference.

A swarm of armored guards kept close proximity to the consul as he arrived, one of them reporting to him in low tones. His face had hardened, his eyes dark. A sword hung loosely from his right hand. He perked up when the Archadian thief protested being herded alongside the rebels.

"Wait just a moment! We're not with the insurgence!"

"Resistance," a nearby woman corrected him.

Vayne approached the thief and spoke in Archadian: "Was one bounty not enough?"

"Coincidence, Your Excellency," the thief replied. "Though I'm glad to see you're settling in."

The woman beside Fran spoke again—in Dalmascan: "These street rats are not in league with us—you insult us to assume they are!"

Vayne closed his eyes and exhaled.

"We are prisoners of war," she went on. "We refuse to be treated like common thieves!"

"Better than common assassins," the thief mumbled as a guard shoved him closer to Fran.

"And who, may I ask, are you to make such demands?" the consul inquired.

"My name is Amalia," she said. "I led tonight's attack. Our goal was not to kill you, but only to remove you from power."

"I'm afraid the two go hand-in-hand, madam."

"Penelo!" All heads turned, and Migelo pushed his way through the crowd.

"Migelo!"

Two of the armored guards caught Migelo and held him back from Vayne. "Your Excellency, she's one of mine."

"She was caught robbing the palace," he answered, gesturing for the guards to stand down.

Penelo hung her head. With the Dusk Shard on her person, she couldn't very well deny it. "I'm sorry, Migelo."

Migelo's eyes glassed over for a moment before clarifying, and he struggled for words.

"I just couldn't stand the thought of it!" Penelo shouted. Half the Resistance had been captured tonight—she wouldn't see Migelo join them. "These stupid Archadians in our royal palace, doing whatever they want with it! I only wanted to reclaim as much as I could for Dalmasca!" She turned to Vayne. "I didn't want anything for myself! I just wanted to make sure you didn't have it!"

One of the guards slammed his gauntleted fist over her head, and she fell to the ground unconscious, gasps rippling over the crowd. Migelo and the thief dropped to their knees beside her.

"What's wrong with you?" the thief growled. "She's just a kid!"

"This is exactly the type of government that we oppose," Amalia added.

Vayne had finished chastising his guard, and gestured for the soldiers to take action. "Check her."

The soldiers pulled the thief to his feet—he jostled against Migelo, who was permitted to stay—and inspected Penelo's vitals.

"She'll be alright," one of the soldiers reported.

"Your Excellency, please!" Migelo begged.

"I'm sorry, Migelo," he told him, voice firm. "I've been sent here to reinstate law and order. I can't make exceptions."

Migelo drew in a breath, and Vayne added:

"I am sure they will be lenient. Her age will be considered, and I'll see that she is tried in a Dalmascan court."

Migelo turned his eyes to his feet. "Thank you, Your Excellency."

"Alright," he continued, turning to his troops. "Place the insurgents in holding until they can be properly questioned, and take these three to Nalbina."


	6. Chapter V

_V._

It had been weeks since Penelo last dreamed of Reks, and weeks before that since the previous haunting—a slow gradient of darkness, paling in frequency as time passed, though unrelenting in intensity. But she saw him in the cloud of unconsciousness that claimed her the night of the fete: drained, wheezing, the mortal gash in his side bandaged but unhealed. Officers and officials and foreign ministers badgered him daily, each armed with the same questions and yet hoping they'd receive different answers.

"Why do they have to talk to me?" he had asked her. "Why can't they talk to each other?"

When the infection finally claimed him, the doctors and guards and everyone in between tried to comfort Penelo with the suggestion that he had not died in vain—that his testimony had brought justice upon a royal assassin. Their words had swirled in an impenetrable haze of echoes every night for the first year—lessened only faintly as the second passed by—but they faded this time, Reks's voice overtaking them not in strength but in softness:

"Don't worry, Pen. I don't want you to worry."

Shadows moved in the darkness, the light behind her lids undulating in shades of brown and scarlet, and the familiar Dalmascan accent of her dreams gave way to the prim Archadian that tinged her nightmares. The Archadian thief was leaning over her when she opened her eyes.

"Welcome back."

"Huh?" She rubbed her head, only to draw back her hand with a wince upon grazing the throbbing knot there.

Low lamps lit the room—high in the corners, out of reach, the ground shrouded in darkness. The air bore a foul smell and cool touch, and gritty sand lined the stone flooring, its granules clumping into an unstable mud beneath her, mixed with rotten straw.

"You've been asleep for nearly three hours," the thief explained.

"You…"

"Me."

She sat up—a rush of blood to her head—and patted down her soiled server's uniform. "You—what—what did you do with it?"

"Easy there," he said. "I didn't do anything with it. It was confiscated—along with everything else."

And now she drew her hands to her face. "No…"

"Standard procedure. Haven't you ever been arrested before?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't!" She struggled to her feet. "Where are we, anyway? Is this Archadia?"

"Nalbina," he corrected, rising as well. "It's not even a proper dungeon—they just sealed off the bottom level of the fortress, cheap bastards."

A distant screech from somewhere within the depths of the dungeon, and the faint murmur of female voices registered from the maze of stone. Deeper chambers loomed around the corner, the walls slick with mold and condensation, the terror that had claimed this place lurking like a wraith in the darkness. Nalbina Fortress—the stronghold that had once overseen passage between Dalmasca and Nabradia, where King Raminas had drawn his last breath, where Reks had taken the wound that killed him.

"This is the women's side, of course," the Archadian went on. "Fran got me in. Smaller, less security—easier escape."

Penelo rolled her eyes. "Of course you would know all about prisons."

"You know," he replied, arms folded, "you deserve to be here as much as I do."

"Hey! I'm no thief, alright? I only took what belonged to me in the first place, and I'd have it by now if you hadn't gotten me caught!"

"Oh, _I_ got _you_ caught? I'd been planning that heist for weeks, and you ruined it in a matter of minutes."

"What did you want with the Dusk Shard, anyway?" Penelo growled. "That place was loaded!"

The thief planted a fist on his hip, copper-colored eyes alight. "It's a little late to be asking questions, don't you think?"

"It doesn't even have any meaning to you. I had a lot riding on it."

"So, I tried to take what you rightfully stole—is that it?"

She turned her back to him. "Just leave me alone."

"Alone?" he asked. "You're not too familiar with pirating are you? It's the Law of Exchange—kind of the opposite of revenge. I got you into this, so I have to get you out."

She paused, tilting her chin toward her shoulder—toward him. "Out?"

"Fran's sniffing out our escape route as we speak. But if you'd rather be left alone, then far be it from me—"

"Hey." Penelo turned, and offered her hand. "I'm Penelo."

He shook it. "Balthier."

Yet as he spoke his name, it was shouted in full from above as several armed soldiers escorted a group of ruffians into the next chamber.

"Balthier Bunansa! Show yourself at once!"

Not about to heed the call of an Imperial captain, the two scampered across the sand and pressed themselves against the wall. The adjacent room was broad and high—stairs cut into its far wall ascending to an iron gate that sectioned off the prison from the fortress's upper levels. Their fellow detainees cowered at the warden's voice, the cadre of soldiers accompanying him holding them with brandished spears.

"Don't make us come looking for you!"

Penelo glanced at Balthier, who was in turn peering around the corner, scanning what portions of the room remained visible to him and plotting his next move.

"Who here has seen him today?" the warden demanded of the crowd. "We know he's escaped the men's dungeon. Your compliance won't be forgotten."

"There was others with him, sir," one of the prisoners replied.

"You can't expect us to rat him out if you intend to leave his friends down here to avenge him," another added.

A bounty hunter strode up to the warden. "You won't find him by askin' questions, anyway. He's a stag what needs hunting!"

"I won't have future prisoners terrorizing my current ones," the warden declared. "Our deal is dependent on the keeping of order."

Then a second bounty hunter stepped forward. "If he was the type to show hisself at any bloke's request, do you really think his bounty'd be as high as it is?"

A faint clicking sounded nearby—Fran appeared behind a gate in the opposite wall, fingers deft on the lock, ears twitching in some combination of listening and feeling the small vibrations along her fingertips as she worked to trick the mechanism. Balthier crept across the room to meet her.

"Darling," he whispered, "what would I do without you?"

"Nothing," she answered. "You'd be long dead."

The lock ticked, the latch flipped, and she stepped into the room and continued: "They cut a deal with the warden; he gets half the bounty if you're found here."

"Not bloody likely. Where are we with the escape?"

She cast a glare at Penelo, but Balthier spoke up: "Don't worry about her."

"Mist seethes from the torture chamber," she went on slowly, "but it is sealed beyond the locks outside."

"Fantastic."

Fran then adopted a smirk and flicked her ears. "The warden has another guest—a Judge."

"Here?"

She strode up to Penelo and nodded toward the crowded room. "There. He comes to question the Kingslayer."

Balthier paused for moment, expression muddled. "What?"

"The Kingslayer?" Penelo echoed.

"The lot of you are incompetent fools!" one of the headhunters bellowed. "If you've the pirate in your hands, where is he?"

"You'd have done better?" the warden scoffed. "By your own words, it was the Imperial army who caught this prey of yours. We've done your job for you."

"Maybe I'll whet my blade on you before I kill the whelp."

"Kill him and you won't get full price."

Both laid hands on the hilts of their swords before a calm voice resonated from the entryway: "That's enough."

"Just our luck," Balthier muttered. "It's Gabranth. He'll take no negotiations from the likes of us."

The Judge was hulking—grave, morose, a colossal suit of armor brought to life by a voice as otherworldly as its own echo. He had been with Vayne in Rabanastre—not the one who struck Penelo, but one among the four who loomed in silence wherever the consul went. He came to a smooth halt before the bounty hunter and continued with a sturdy Landisian accent: "The doctor will only pay for a live delivery."

"There's others who would pay for a corpse," the offending bounty hunter sneered.

"Half as much," Gabranth replied. "And bear in mind that you will answer to me if you mess this up."

Balthier huffed.

"Where is the captain?" Gabranth went on.

"We have him in solitary, Your Honor," said the warden, weaving through the crowd of bounty hunters. "We're ready to begin our interrogation."

One of the hunters lurched forward. "But, Balthier—"

"This doesn't concern you," Gabranth interrupted. "Find your prey and get lost."

The prisoners parted, creating a path before the warden, but he kept his focus on the hunters. "Just go ahead and have your run of the place. I suppose they could use a little roughing up—but not too much, you hear? A guard to supervise you or will lock you down here with them!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"Time for the hare to follow the fox," said Fran.

"My thoughts exactly," Balthier added.

Penelo turned from the wall to face them. "What?"

"Well," Balthier explained, following Fran through the gate she had unlocked, "our clanky friends are headed for the torture chamber, and the little gits won't dare interfere with a Judge. We'll get him to open it for us."

The room beyond the gate ran parallel to the warden's path, but the passageway soon converged, and they maneuvered their way out of the shadows and into the safety of a dark alcove.

"Who exactly is _us_?" Francesca asked.

They waited, allowing the warden and the Judge to gain a discreet distance ahead of them.

"Umm…" Penelo pulled one of her mud-matted braids over her shoulder and worked her fingers at its end.

"Right," said Balthier. "Penelo is coming with us."

Fran rolled her eyes. "This had better not turn out like Archades."

"Honestly," Balthier groaned. "That was two years ago…"

They continued on, dodging any eyes that may have strayed from the ruckus of the bounty hunters.

"What's up with these Judges?" Penelo asked. "Some Archadian thing?"

"She is young in mind, too," said Fran.

"More than a thing, I'm afraid," Balthier answered when they reached safer ground. "They're the self-proclaimed guardians of law and order in Archadia. They're also the elite guard of House Solidor, which effectively makes them the commanders of the Imperial army."

"Geez…" Penelo risked a closer peek at Gabranth, who now stood stonily while the warden unlocked a gate sealing off a smaller chamber.

"Not a friendly lot, at any rate," Balthier went on. "If it comes down to it, stick close to the bounty hunters. Come on."


	7. Chapter VI

_VI._

Fran was a creature of trees and grass and a cool, green world. The rough stone of Nalbina was barren and lifeless, the echoing voices that filled the dark already threatening to give her a headache, and the stairs spiraling down into blackness beyond the gate promised a thickening of the Mist that already gathered in the corners of the dungeon. She glared at a trio of prisoners who took notice of Balthier as he picked the lock—he was better at it than she was—and they shuffled away in silence.

A metallic _clack_ , and they descended the shadowed stairwell. The voices ahead of them echoed upwards, and they followed slowly, feet tepid on the tread-worn steps.

"Is isolation really necessary?" Gabranth asked in Archadian.

"He'll only try to escape again, otherwise."

"He's always worse when he comes out of there."

"Isn't that the goal?"

The clanking footsteps halted, and the thieves went still on the stairs, shadowed and safely removed.

"In two years he hasn't given in to your methods," said Gabranth. "Reason would suggest a change is due."

"Trust me, Your Honor, persistence is the key to interrogation. The finest steeds take the longest to break."

A high gothic door sealed off the bottom of the passage—Fran could make it out through the darkness, though the eyes of her human companions were not as sharp. It was thick—wrought iron, very old, and bolted on all four sides by rods inserted into the stone around it. The warden produced a gleaming stone from his satchel and inserted it into the fitted indentation in the door, lighting the engraved glyphs on the iron surface a bright maroon color. A swift streak of luminosity pulsed through the design, and Gabranth and the warden each inserted a key in separate locks at the door's center. The rods jolted inward, freeing the hinge to swing, and the heaving panel creaked open.

The Imperials closed it at their backs, and the thieves descended to the landing. Fran took one lock; Balthier took the other.

"We don't have the magicite," Penelo whispered.

"We have Fran," Balthier replied.

The girl turned a slow and studious gaze to her, but Fran ignored it, as she always did. The clay-caked bit of straw she had wound around her scrap of wire crumbled in the lock as she twisted it.

"For what she's worth," Balthier added.

Fran handed him the wire, and he doubled it over and jabbed it in. A few more tweaks, and he stood back.

Fran placed a hand over the setting that required a stone, and closed her eyes. Her ears rolled inward just slightly, closing against the shouts and footfalls above, and the Mist drifting at her feet billowed upward, flowing into the likeness of the engravings on the door. It hovered there, curling, sharpening, growing in opacity and sinking into the channels, and then it glowed a pale lavender. Inhaling, she raised her other hand to the indentation and pressed both palms over it together. A burst of fuchsia, a flash of light, and she stepped back. Balthier turned the bits of metal he had placed in the locks, and the door opened.

The heavy clunk of the iron bars was muted this time, the gathered Mist absorbing any resonance that might have carried, but the thieves hesitated all the same, listening for tones of concern. When at last they crept onward, they entered a spiraling chamber, drilled into the ground, bare dirt at its lowest level. Steel cuffs and chains lined the walls of the ramp that coiled downward, a few faint bricks of magicite casting shadows over the arcane devices stashed haphazardly in intermittent piles. A cool fog hazed the air, and the door by which they had entered appeared to be the exit as well.

Welded to the floor below them were several steel loops, and chained to one of these crouched an ashen man—feral and brooding—with pensive green eyes and grime-darkened hair. His knuckles bled and his bones jutted out, and cuts and bruises marred his face. Though he looked to be in his mid-forties, his frame remained as solid and imposing as a workhorse's, and he bore the warden's insults and orders with a steady dignity.

The warden called him Ronsenburg, and Penelo jolted forward at the name, biting back a growl with clenched teeth. Balthier laid a hand on her shoulder and lowered her at his side, flat onto the stone ramp, shielded by shadow. Fran folded her ears back and followed suit.

"I've come to help you," Gabranth said in Dalmascan, and Basch seemed to meet his eyes through the steel helm without search.

"Last time you came to help me, they broke my leg and starved me for a week."

Gabranth shook his head. "Bitterness is unbecoming of a knight."

"Are you really going to lecture me on knighthood?" Basch groaned, breaking eye-contact and painfully shifting his chains.

Gabranth tensed like a feral cur before injured game, armor creaking and scraping, but then he paused, cocking his head much in the manner of a puppy. Basch mirrored the gesture with perfect accuracy, and the Judge at last answered him in Landisian—blunt, harsh, well-suited to their quips and growls. In all her years beyond the jungle, it was the only human tongue Fran hadn't learned—Landis was too cold to stay long enough to pick it up, and she suspected that her delicate mouth could not form the gravelly consonants if she tried. The conversation continued in this language for a few moments until the warden questioned whether he should leave them to their own devices. Gabranth bade him stay, and continued on to Basch in Dalmascan:

"Vayne will send no more insurgents here to conjecture with you. Once we take Bhujerba, you'll have outlived your usefulness…"

Basch laughed and shook some hair out of his eyes. "Vayne. You really hate him, don't you?"

"Make no mistake, Basch," Gabranth growled. "The most honorable years of my life have been spent in servitude to House Solidor."

"Most honorable and the last. Now what do you want?"

Gabranth shifted, the sound of it carrying up the chamber. "We've caught a leader of the insurgence in Rabanastre. A general—Amalia."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has. She claims she served under your command as a lieutenant in Landis, and was transferred to Captain Vossler's command in Dalmasca at your promotion."

Basch twisted against his chains. "Then she's probably just as dead as Vossler."

"Need I remind you that your generosity in these matters will be rewarded?"

"Not interested."

A moment of silence followed. Basch stared at the ground, and Gabranth gazed off to the side. At length, the Judge spoke: "I can help you if you'll just cooperate."

"Isn't there a prince somewhere in need of your protection?" Basch replied.

Gabranth gave no reply, and the warden stepped in: "Shall we begin?"

"No," said Gabranth.

"He's telling the truth?"

"No."

And the Judge turned and strode up the dim ramp, leaving the warden to trot at his heels. "Your Honor?"

The thieves scrambled, ducking behind a wiry pile of bars, pliers, and dented cages. Two suits of armor clattered by, and the slamming of the door announced their exit—and Basch wearily resumed fiddling with his irons. Balthier stepped out of hiding and shook some soil from his cuffs, then headed down the ramp, addressing the captain in Dalmascan:

"Lock picking, eh?"

"Nothing better to do."

"You won't get far on those," Balthier explained. "New model, made specifically to deter gents like you. Draklor Laboratory is phasing out pin-barrels entirely—"

Basch raised his head. "I thought it was the Archadian code of etiquette not to speak unless you can improve the silence."

Balthier scowled. "Fine then. Fran? This the place?"

She approached him with measured strides, eyes wandering over the walls and ceiling in search of an opening. "The Mist is flowing through this room. It must be going somewhere."

Basch stilled upon hearing her foreign accent, studying her first with awe and then with realization. "You're no Imperials…"

"He's smarter than he looks," said Fran.

"Please, you must get me out—"

"You're not really _improving_ the _silence_ , are you?" Balthier replied.

Fran examined the nearest wall, running her fingers over the brickwork. "Here…" she said. "There was a door here, I think."

"I didn't kill the king," Basch insisted. "Please, for the sake of Dalmasca—"

"What do you care about Dalmasca?" Penelo snapped. "Everything that's happened is because of you!"

Balthier joined Fran in breaking through the crumbling masonry, while Basch continued to beg:

"You have to believe me. I didn't kill him."

"Shut up," Penelo shouted. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"Quiet!" Balthier interrupted. "The guards will hear!"

They all paused then, the ease with which Basch could alert half the prison of their presence dawning on each of them, and Balthier shot him a glare of warning.

"I could just knock you out," he said.

"Try it," Basch replied.

Another pause, and Balthier knelt down and set to work on Basch's irons, leaving Fran to push out the remaining bricks. "Oh, alright. You'll have to forgive the little cage-rattler there; she's new to the whole prison thing."

"Don't let him go," Penelo protested.

"Fran?"

Swiftly, silently, Fran stepped between Penelo and Balthier. "Ship or no ship," she said, "Balthier is still the captain."

"Pirates?" Basch sighed.

"The best," said Balthier. "I imagine two years ago, you would've been trying to kill us."

"Times change, and friends with them."

With a simple _clack_ , the cuffs popped off, and Balthier rose.

"That was fast," said Basch.

"Practice makes perfect. You alright?"

He remained crouched, inspecting the bloody rings the manacles had left around his wrists. "I've had worse."

"Balthier," Penelo continued, "you don't understand what he's done."

"I didn't see him kill anybody," Balthier replied, returning to the bricked-in door.

"My brother did."

Basch looked up to Penelo, a glint of recognition sparking through his countenance. "Reks—I thought you looked familiar."

Penelo rolled her eyes and joined the others in yanking stones from the wall.

"Where is he now?" Basch asked.

"Dead," Penelo answered.

"I see." He tried to gain some stable footing. "I suppose you were told I did it."

"What's there to suppose?"

"Please." He leaned against the wall now, struggling to stand. "I know my word means nothing at this point, but I swear I am innocent…"

"Yes, yes, of course," Balthier injected, approaching the lame Landisian once more. "We're all innocent down here." He extended his hand, which Basch gladly accepted. "Up you go."

"What the hell are you doing?" Penelo demanded. "Let him rot down here!"

Basch stumbled, months of confinement cramping his legs, but Balthier remained hospitable at his side. "Sorry, kid. I believe him."

"You do?" Penelo and Basch asked in unison.

"Isn't it obvious?" the pirate answered. "His evil twin did it."

Basch gaped. "How did you know?"

"Gabranth and I used to be drinking buddies. He's off his rocker, if you ask me."

Penelo shook her head. "What?"

"You knew all this time and you didn't tell anyone?" Basch added, losing his balance and scraping his feet against the dirt.

"Have a little faith," Balthier defended, catching and steadying him. "I lit out of Archades after Nabudis went down. Haven't had a word with him since months before the assassination."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Penelo cut in. "You really _are_ innocent?"

"Yes," Basch groaned. "Gabranth framed me. Vayne thought up the whole thing in order to victimize Dalmasca."

"You were framed by your own brother and the emperor's son?" Penelo scoffed.

"Made Archadia look downright compassionate for stepping in like they did," Balthier added. "They couldn't have kept up their good terms with Bhujerba otherwise. And Rozarria is always looking for excuses to pick a fight."

Penelo hesitated, lower lip hanging loose. Fran kept pulling out bricks. The captain had finally found his center of gravity—fleeting though it appeared—and Balthier stood back while he ventured a few clumsy steps toward the wall.

"He'll kill us the first chance he gets," Penelo warned. "He's a traitor."

"I know," said Balthier. "So am I, for that matter; and so are you." He slapped Basch on the back and headed toward the dank passageway beside Fran. "If you can walk, let's go."

Penelo spun to face him as he passed her. "You're taking him with us?"

"I took you, didn't I?"

"Thank you," said Basch, finally gaining his own ground.

"You talk too much, Captain," Balthier shot back.

Fran sighed and shook her head. "Our ranks grow by the hour."

"And our troubles with them," Balthier added, voice echoing through the dark, "but better to be uneasy than outnumbered."

Penelo trudged after them, eyes on the dirt. "I can't believe this…"


	8. Chapter VII

_VII._

"The people of Dalmasca seem full of fire, but it is easy enough to bring them to heel."

Easy enough to pretend it, at least.

One had to be an Archadian, to truly appreciate how many levels of obligation there were in that statement, and just who would raise the loudest protests, and which houses could be counted on to rally the Senators among them, and then it would be months of argument and they would surely summon him back to Archades and Vayne did not have the time or the inclination to bother with the wounded egos of useless men.

He had seated himself so that the captain of the palace guard could look down on him—sacrifice a little authority in order to gain some trust: a lesson from his middle brother, before he died, trailing after a lesson from his elder brother, before he died: being feared was the best way to be the last one to know when things went wrong. He kept his own expression blank, neither condoning nor condemning, all the better to let things play out as they would, and the guard captain was slow to start, but the longer Vayne kept quiet the more comfortable the captain grew in filling the silence.

"It's well enough that a dignitary should bring his Dalmascan wife to the fete,"—What a scandal that was.—"but one of my guards took four months' leave to birth a Dalmascan child, and no replacement was sent. We need more swords, and stronger restrictions. The people of Rabanastre have forgotten they are conquered."

"The people of Rabanastre are Imperial citizens," Vayne replied, tone smooth, expression calm. It was more poetic hope than legal fact, but he would gladly start it here; let the people benefit a bit, and see if they might find opportunity rather than endless oppression in their future.

"And they are to intermarry with their masters?" the captain asked, and seemed to immediately regret it.

Vayne leaned into the armrest of his chair. It was not surprising for a soldier—even an officer—to view this as a matter of simple conquest, to forget that this was meant to be a permanent change. "Captain, you have maintained the peace in this city for two years, and I dare say you've been more effective than you anticipated. The people have moved from fearing you to respecting you, and now they wish to trust you."

The captain shifted.

"Do you have some men and women of Dalmasca among your staff?" Vayne went on.

He nodded. "Yes, Your Excellency."

"Bring me the names of your most loyal of these tomorrow, and I will see that they and their families are granted full Archadian citizenship, including passage across the whole of the Empire. I'm sure you will see the benefits of integration before long."

Another nod. "I may, Your Excellency—thank you—but I fear the troops will not be so easily convinced."

"Then let them know that if I hear of any acts of transgression or attempts at retribution following last night's attack, those responsible will be tried by the citizens of Rabanastre, and I will not hesitate to mete out their chosen punishment."

The captain fell still, as tense as Vayne was loose.

Vayne continued: "If my soldiers are foolish enough to risk the city's peace on some misguided attempt at revenge, I am heartless enough to wash my hands of them."

This was enough to placate the man and send him away without trouble, but Vayne decided all the same to remove him from his position within half a year—send him back to Archades, where he could enjoy his favored degree of civilization, and no doubt continue in his life's work of being passed around to wherever he could do the least damage.

Vayne rose from the desk and walked to the window at his back. The sun had finally touched the dunes in the distance—it dominated the sky for twelve hours a day—and it was much cooler inside the palace: stone walls opened up on little fountains here and there, hidden grottos set in unexpected places that kept the air fresh. Many windows overlooked gardens; he had not expected it to be so green.

The city had calmed somewhat, but the disaster at the fete had done irreparable damage to Vayne's image—among other things—and nearly half of the Resistance members that had been captured had disappeared within hours of their imprisonment. His reflection stood ghostly still in the windowpane, and he could almost see his father there in the way he set his shoulders, the way he fixed his expression, heir to an empire of conquerors, and trained from childhood to reveal nothing, even when he stood alone in the room. Old habits. Who would have thought he could survive long enough to acquire old habits?

The Solidor family was inherently despotic—Vayne knew it, bore it with a jaded sense of irony, recalled the story of his however-many-greats-grandmother, who slew two sisters and three brothers to claim her throne, and then filled the palace with mirrors under the excuse of vanity, when in truth the paranoia had left her forever craving the view over her shoulder. But so, too, were they remarkable survivors—Solidors—nearly all successful assassinations kept within the house, and it was not wisdom that made a royal family strong, but durability.

As hotly as the Senate debated his taking the position of consul, Vayne was sure they were now counting on him to be conveniently murdered as soon as possible. Despite appearances, commanding the western armada had kept him leagues from harm, but as an Imperial representative in the capital of a subjugate land, recently bereft of king and princess both—surely, assassins abounded.

It was fortunate that—apart from possessing it so that Rozarria did not—the Empire had little interest in claiming Dalmasca. There would be no great alterations made, nothing planned to bring this place in line with more Archadian standards of culture or decorum. But all the same, no one in Dalmasca would be comforted with the knowledge that their lives were overturned, their loved ones sent to die in battle, all because they were in the way; that the taking of Dalmasca was simply a repositioning for the battle that may still come to their gates, that this was Rozarria's decision as much as it was the Empire's.

His father's order had been so simple—assassinate Raminas; make it look like an act of insurrection—a dry operation to a ruler who had done this sort of thing so many times before, and if Vayne had failed—if it had gone wrong—Emperor Gramis would surely enjoy being able to deny all culpability: claim Vayne had acted of his own accord, and watch the last great threat to his reign perish in a cleansing scandal that left the emperor clean of blame. Gramis's sons, the swords of Solidor, the very best kind of weapon: highly skilled and completely disposable.

Involving Gabranth had been a mistake—a calculated mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Vayne trusted him even less than he trusted Drace, always staring forward in silence, ignoring Vayne—heir to the throne of the world's greatest Empire—and answering him always with an accusing brevity, with the insinuation of duty-borne guilt, as if five-hundred-thousand terrible fates didn't already fight for Vayne's attention each time he closed his eyes. The Necrohol, they called it now; Nabudis: the Necrohol.

It was not his fault. Or perhaps it was entirely his fault. Vayne realized now that he couldn't quite grasp it—the sheer numbers involved—though Cid had always cited the tiniest cold comfort in the idea that at least they didn't know what was happening; it was over in moments, before there was even time to be afraid. Raminas might have lived if Dalmasca hadn't roused to avenge the horror visited on its sister-state—if his son-in-law hadn't gone and gotten himself killed. The princess might have married Vayne, and an alliance been formed. But they were dead, the lot of them, rotting and worthless, and Zecht—used, unknowing—there at the center of it all.

But it was in the past—as so much was these days—and Vayne escaped the darker reaches of memory by assuring himself that the rest of the world hated him enough that he could feel vaguely good about hating himself.

"Please don't hate me."

That was his clearest memory of her—on the balcony, sun at her back, begging him not to hate her. He had delivered the news of her father's death, stood up at her wedding, punched a man for maligning her birth, but that day encompassed it all, embodied her, epitomized her—a haunting of sunlight and summer flowers on the breeze.

"Lord Vayne."

He turned—it was Bergan, deft in his armor, always, but still clanging and banging enough that Vayne should have heard his approach. He offered out a letter.

"A message from Judge Gabranth," he reported, and Vayne accepted it, ripped it open.

"A message?"

"He is unable to report to you personally," Bergan explained. "The emperor bade him come to Archades before the Eighth Fleet should arrive."

Vayne rolled his eyes. "How does the old bastard expect me to run anything efficiently when he's constantly usurping my resources for his own business?"

"A good question, Excellency, but one with which I'd rather not involve myself."

Vayne scanned the letter. The Kingslayer, it seemed, claimed no knowledge of General Amalia, though Gabranth felt sure that this was a lie and that the woman was indeed of great importance. Getting Basch to cooperate seemed the only thing Gabranth was any good for those days; he'd lost his edge after the Nalbina incident, and Vayne had wanted to silence him then, but Drace and Gramis found him necessary, and so he stayed.

Of greater note, however, was that Basch had gone missing, as had the infamous Balthier Bunansa, much to the detriment of Doctor Cid's bounty hunters. Vayne withheld a groan, and returned his gaze to Bergan.

"We're screwed," he said.

"My sympathies," the Judge replied.

"Come." Vayne started out of the office, down the hall toward the stairs. "Things were supposed to calm down after I left the ranks," he went on. "If this nonsense keeps up, I'll have to send the Eighth back."

"We'll step up the security," Bergan insisted.

"No, we must get rid of her."

"Agreed. But His Excellency will not act so quickly."

"He will not trust so quickly, either," Vayne groaned. "Me least of all. With the Kingslayer on the loose, we stand to lose Bhujerba."

"I could dispose of him," Bergan offered.

"No," said Vayne, "I've got bigger plans for you. I've changed my mind about the Bunansa kid—I want him killed."

At this, the Judge paused, though his footfalls did not falter, and he turned his head slightly, the motion minimized beneath his menacing helm. "But Doctor Cid—"

"I can't risk him getting close to the insurgence."

"My lord, he would never allow such information to fall into the wrong hands."

Vayne shook his head. "He's a loose canon, Bergan. Maybe Cid can't understand that, but I can. You'll start tomorrow. See that it's done."

"Yes, my lord."

He folded the letter back up, but kept his grip on it. The halls passed smoothly, and they descended to the basement level, torches lighting the corners, water dripping somewhere in the distance. She was too valuable to confine to a dungeon—Amalia. He had escorted her personally to an empty storeroom in the palace and ordered two of his own guards—Judges—to trade posts watching over her.

He paused at the door and adjusted his collar, then turned to Bergan. "Wish me luck."

He nodded. "Always, Your Excellency."

Amalia sat in the corner of the cell, wrists and ankles shackled, eyes trained on the grimy ground before her. In the opposite corner stood Judge Drace, silent and imposing, not even a creak of armor as the consul entered.

Amalia rose to her feet. "Your Excellency."

"General," Vayne replied with a nod.

Even in the low light, she was as sun-kissed as any Dalmascan, though her hair would be considered dark by the nation's standards: a pale almond brown, almost silvery in the glow of the magicite orb at the room's center.

Vayne shut the door behind him, nodding his greeting to Drace, who only vaguely returned it. Of all the Judges, only Drace could intimidate him; he hated it.

"I'm not lying," Amalia began.

"We'll see." He suspected she spoke Archadian considerably well, but he kept to his flawless Dalmascan, if only for the sake of appearing hospitable. "You spent two years serving under Captain Ronsenburg when Archadia marched on the Republic of Landis, correct?"

"He was a lieutenant then."

"Right," he continued, pacing.

She stood motionless except for the gradual turning of her head to level her glare on him as he walked. Her fingers looked all the more delicate curled around the stretch of chain between her irons.

"So, Landis fell and you returned to Dalmasca."

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod.

"Why fight for Landis in the first place, then?"

"I went to live there when I married."

"Your husband is Landisian?"

"Was." Neither her gaze nor her tone faltered.

"Apologies," he continued. "So, you joined the Old Order and served under…"

"Captain Vossler—for six years."

"But you were never at Nalbina?"

"I was injured before my troop departed. I've always thought myself lucky."

Vayne frowned slightly—almost a pout. "You may be surprised to learn that I have a quite reliable contact in your insurgence."

"Resistance."

A subtle metallic squeaking sounded as Drace shifted, but Vayne paid it no heed, instead holding up Gabranth's letter and regarding the general with his best impression of his father. "Apparently, he's never heard of you."

"And yet you have," she replied in that short, precise way that Dalmascans so often did. "Is this your idea of reliable?"

"Let's drop the pretenses, shall we? You never served Ronsenburg or Vossler, but you are covering for one of them."

"Nonsense."

Vayne exhaled, not surprised in the least, but nevertheless disappointed. Of all things to deal with, of all disasters to fall into his hands—this.

"Your husband," he said, and her eyes didn't yield—cold, crystalline, silver as a fish's scales. "I believe that much, but he wasn't at all Landisian."

"Nabradian," she told him. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"You're nothing without proof."

"I can take you to it."

"What?" he scoffed. "The treasury on the third floor? Our little thief friends left it wide open last night."

She cocked her head. "That's what they were after?"

"Apparently not." He resumed his pacing. "It's not there and it wasn't on any of them."

"That's what _you're_ after?"

"You may recall, madam, that I am the one interrogating you."

"And I suppose that's about all you can do until you find the Dusk Shard."

"If you're lying—"

"I'm not."

He halted, meeting her eyes once more. A moment passed between them, and he took his leave. And she—momentarily resting her gaze on the door as it slammed, and then on the Judge who watched over her—strode back to the corner at the far end of her cell and sat, silent.

Vayne turned to Bergan and spoke his name.

"My lord," he replied with a nod.

"How close is the Eighth?"

"Docking in Bhujerba as we speak."

"Perfect." He crumpled the letter in his fist. "Send for the _Shiva_."


	9. Chapter VIII

_VIII._

Though the journey between Rabanastre and Nalbina lasted a mere three hours by Imperial caravan, crossing the desert on foot—while avoiding any known path or trading post—proved a trek of a full day and most of the night. The outer reaches of Dalmasca's borders abutted Nabradia, a land of meadows, forests, and temperate weather, but the heat of the desert intensified as they trudged along the River Lete, despite the shade of the trees and bushes that grew there.

Basch struggled to keep up the pace, limping heavily, wincing beneath the sun's glare. His head pounded and his legs trembled with disuse, but he reveled in the fresh air, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, his shoulders straightened and his head rose, and the memory of Nalbina grew as distant as the fortress itself.

Penelo ignored him, eyes trained ahead, while Balthier and Francesca bickered in Vieran—lost once, too visible to the road on the opposite bank twice. Rumor painted Viera as merciless beasts, their language as viciously guarded as their culture, all humanity spurned, but Balthier spoke it comfortably with Fran, and the sound of it baffled Basch: an airy tongue of fragile prefixes and cushiony diphthongs that starkly contrasted the robust Landisian that he knew best.

A few hours into the morning, a shining steel airship cast a shadow over them as it glided on the breeze, and the peaks of Rabanastre's highest spires gleamed on the horizon where it flew.

"I told you I knew where we were going," Balthier announced, and Fran rolled her eyes.

Basch knew that Rabanastre had changed—was relieved to see that it still stood—but the subtlety of the modifications took him by surprise. It looked as it always had—the tan stone buildings, roofed in red, decorative hints of blue and purple at their corners, the smell of ferns and orchids at the city gate intermingled with wafts of spices carried up from the market; only the sounds had shifted: the shouts of merchants alternating Dalmascan with Archadian, and then the occasional glint of sunlight on armor, barely noticeable in the crowds. Some things could be fixed, it seemed; others simply had to be tolerated.

"Nothing personal," Balthier told him, "but I think this is where our roads split."

"Don't want the Resistance to spot you with the likes of me?" Basch replied, mouth half turned up in a bitter smirk.

Balthier returned the expression. "That's the idea. Though I admit it's been something of a relief to walk in the shadow of a bigger target."

Basch laughed—it was a good sound, a good feeling.

"And you, brat." Balthier went on to Penelo. "Just remember you're a fugitive now, too. Try and stay low for a while."

Penelo nodded. "Finally, something I'm good at."

"We'll be in town a while longer," he added, heading into the city beside Fran. "Search through the pubs next time you're up for robbing the palace. We'll be far more effective if we're on the same side."

"Thanks." She waved as they disappeared into the crowds, then turned to Basch. "You're still a traitor in this town, you know."

"I know."

"The Resistance will come after you."

"I'm counting on it."

She put a hand on her hip. "Counting on it?"

"You said Vayne is in charge here—he and I have unfinished business."

"And you think the Resistance will help you? As soon as they find out you weren't executed when the marquis said you were, they're gonna do it themselves."

Basch tried not to roll his eyes—tried to remind himself that this was Penelo, not Reks. "I think I know them better than you do."

"What makes you so sure?"

And at this he paused, eyes sharp even in the midday glare, and he stepped closer to her, shielding the conversation as best he could. "If you have something to say, then say it."

"They attacked the palace the night I robbed it," she said, scowling. "I was supposed to bring them the Dusk Shard, but Balthier and Fran got me busted."

"The Dusk Shard?"

"If you want to give yourself up to them, I'm happy to help."

He leaned back—gave her some room. "Alright. Lead the way."

She didn't have to lead him far—a medium-sized shop at the center of the marketplace, windows shining, doors propped open. Penelo drew her pigtails over each shoulder and rolled them between her palms to shake the dried mud from them, then cast a sliding glare over Basch and stepped inside. They passed through the public floor to the storage room in back, but Penelo hesitated at the entryway, eyes narrowed and searching.

"Something's wrong," she said at length. "There are usually kids running around here."

"Kids?" Basch asked.

And then sacks fell over both their heads from behind, gripped tight around their throats, and the room filled with footsteps and voices. Basch kicked—reached behind him—but a boot to the back of his knee brought him to the floor. The fastest fight he'd ever lost—he blamed the starvation, the weak leg; and then he blamed himself.

"Who are you?"

It was a man's voice—he recognized it.

"I work here!" Penelo was squealing.

They dragged him into the storeroom, and her voice was right at his side.

"I work for Migelo!"

A moment of silence, and the man spoke again: "Take it off."

The whisk of Penelo's sack being removed, and a small breath of relief.

"Where is she?" the man asked.

"She's not here?" Penelo replied.

"She's been missing since the fete."

"What?"

And now another man's voice: "I saw this girl there. She was arrested with the others."

"You're one of us?" the first man continued, and at last Basch placed the voice.

"The Resistance?" said Penelo. "Yes, I was—she had me go after the Dusk Shard. I was helping you that night."

Basch spoke: "Vossler."

The ensuing silence was expected—the grip of fingers on top of his head, and the sack flew up and off. It was Azelas: tall, sharp, a bit grayer than Basch remembered him—and much grimmer—but Azelas all the same, glaring down at him less in disbelief than in disappointment.

"Ronsenburg," he said—a faint nod of greeting.

Penelo kneeled beside him, blue eyes wide. Three men and a woman held them there at sword point.

"Ronsenburg?" one of them asked. "The Kingslayer?"

"You look terrible," said Azelas.

"I feel worse," Basch replied.

"He's supposed to be dead!" another of the Resistance members snapped.

"Captain," a third added, "it's another trick—the Empire sent him!"

"Quiet," Azelas ordered, scarcely raising his voice, and then, to Basch and Penelo: "Both of you, stand."

They did.

"Reks said you murdered the king," Azelas went on. "Ondore said you were executed for it."

"All a plot by the Empire," Basch answered. "I never left Nalbina." And it took him a moment to identify what he was feeling as shame—embarrassment. To stand before his old comrade—once a rival—starving, unshaven, caked with dirt; they had been knights, and here he stood, a broken, savage creature barely able to grasp enough focus through his exhaustion to relay the absurd narrative that was the truth.

"Reks said he saw you," said Azelas.

Basch lowered his eyes, and glanced fleetingly to Penelo. "Penelo is his sister."

Azelas looked to her as well.

"He did say Basch did it," the girl explained. "But—he might have been wrong. I mean, I was at Nalbina just now—they sent me there after the fete—and they had Basch in solitary, and they asked him about the Resistance, but he wouldn't talk."

"A likely story," said Azelas.

"I know," she replied. "I'm not sure, either. That's why I brought him here—to hand him over to Migelo."

Azelas pulled a letter from his belt and held it out to Penelo. "We sent a messenger to her to pick up the Dusk Shard," he said as Penelo tepidly picked the folded paper from his hand. "There were signs of a struggle. This was left."

Penelo's eyes flicked left and right over the letter, but Azelas continued to question her:

"Did you ever get the Shard to her?"

"No." She shook her head, only half listening. And then she leaned to the side, away from Basch, and the rebels—their blades hungrier for the traitor than the thief—allowed her to sit on a crate near the wall. "No. The Imperials confiscated it."

Azelas sighed. "What more could possibly go wrong?"

Basch studied him, the light slanting through the windows illuminating the dust in the air, casting golden shafts between them. "This general they asked me about…"

And Azelas nodded. "Amalia. They had me cornered—me and a few others. She jumped right in, stubborn fool."

"How could you let this happen?"

"How could _I_ let this happen?" His voice was low, but grew higher in tandem with its volume. Basch stood about five inches taller than him, but he stepped up to him all the same. "After all that _you_ have let happen? After all that I have had to face in the last two years? All that I have had to hold together?"

Basch shook his head. "Azelas, I didn't mean—"

"They sent us your sword, Basch."

"What?"

"They gave it to one of our captured soldiers and released him."

Basch couldn't speak for a moment. The Order of Dalmascan Knights kept to strict rituals of initiation that had been passed down since the time of the Dynast King. For each knight that pledged fealty to the crown, a new sword was forged—inscribed with the name of its bearer. It was on these blades that they swore their oaths, and with these blades that they kept them. They took them to their graves, if their deaths proved honorable; an ignoble death warranted a return to the forge: unless a fellow knight stepped forward to claim the sword and seek redemption for his fallen comrade beyond death, the initiation blade would be melted down and forgotten.

And it struck him then: Gabranth. He took the sword from Basch at Nalbina—to effectively impersonate him—but had he kept it all this time? The Resistance would surely have seen it destroyed while under the impression that he had betrayed them.

"They were baiting you," he said, and one of the soldiers holding a blade to him scoffed. "You're already weak; you can't let them taunt you out of hiding."

"The night we moved against Vayne, he knew," Azelas flared. "He's had her taken from the palace—our contacts can't even confirm where. We have been decimated and infiltrated, and now we've lost our leader."

"Then regroup," Basch insisted. "Now is not the time to be brash."

"What makes you think you have any say in this? What makes you think you have any right to—" He huffed—cut himself off.

Basch had never seen him like this.

"I will not risk another betrayal," Azelas told him at last.

The four soldiers surrounding him exchanged glances.

"Then what will you do?" he bit back. "Hold me here in chains?"

And then a flash of the old Azelas passed over his face—the glint of bemusement in his pale Dalmascan eyes. "Experience dictates that would do me no good."

"Some things never change, do they?"

He shifted his weight. "Listen to me, Ronsenburg. Your cage may have no bars, but it is a cage nonetheless. You will do nothing without us watching."

"Go ahead and watch. I know something of cages."

And suddenly one of the soldiers gave a shout: "Captain!"

They turned to him.

"She's gone!"

He meant Penelo—the crate where she sat was deserted, a breeze drifting through the open window above it. Basch smirked.


	10. Chapter IX

_IX._

Unlike most other pirates, Balthier was not a drunk—which was to say that he often _was_ drunk, but he wasn't _a_ drunk. He was sitting back with a glass of something brown and putrid right now, as at home in the brown and bronze shadows of the Sandsea Tavern as he was in the dungeon, or the palace, or any of the alleys and aerodomes and abandoned ruins that came before. Fran sat at his side, sipping her pomegranate juice and ignoring the stares—always ignoring the stares.

She had met only two other Viera beyond the Wood—both settled in Rozarria, where the jungles closely resembled the wonder at the roots of Mount Bur-Omisace, where men would pay them just to attend their parties, just to stand at their sides. But Francesca didn't give up the strictures of the Golmore Jungle only to trade them for the human equivalent: even if the path was steeper, she preferred skypirating—no laws or loyalties, always something to learn and discover—and Balthier shared in this, born into the rigors and rituals of Archadian society, where one's house was judged before one's merit, where even war was a matter of ceremony. Whether thieves or merchants or senators, Archadian women were expected to be graceful and the men courteous, even Balthier—impossible Balthier—always a gentleman in spite of himself; only on the battlefield were these roles forgotten.

Had he any desire to settle down, or at least to turn a tidy profit while waiting for the skies to cool, he was more than good enough as a mechanic, but war meant boycotts and tariffs and border restrictions—all of which lessened the supply of capable smugglers and heightened the demand for them. Balthier would not stop—an understanding between the two of them, a mutual obsession, shared but for the motive behind it: Fran was living; Balthier was running.

He wouldn't say it, but he didn't need to. He woke up shouting in the middle of the night, an echo down the metal halls even with the cockpit door closed and locked. His eyes sharpened at any mention of the Necrohol. A crime against nature, the whispers reported, nothing but a crater where the royal city once stood, but Fran knew better—sensed it whenever they flew too near the site, which wasn't near at all. It was a crime _of_ nature—it was the power of the world wielded by those who considered themselves apart from it, above it.

"I can feel it," she had complained once, her head throbbing.

"The Mist?" he had replied.

And she asked how he knew—how he knew it was Mist, congested, enough to make their ship's magicite engine surge and sputter, a concentration that would take five thousand years to dissipate.

"Rumor," he had answered—a shrug, a smile, a malediction toward a fellow pirate who was always full of shady information. "Not really my area."

Such a lie that Fran was almost afraid of the truth it concealed.

But so he went on, a grin for every ally and opponent alike, a cocksure ease in every port, with every client, deflecting every look with a smile and every question with a glib reply and all that Archadia had done and would do was no more than water sliding off glass.

Fran often thought of stopping him—of putting her hands on his shoulders and just holding him there until he spoke to her—but she could not bring herself to do it; not when she could see how hard he fought to maintain, and not when she had no answers, no way to make this right. The rules of Eruyt had no purchase here, and if he was ashamed of his homeland's victory, he would be more ashamed to let it weaken his resolve.

"Balthier!"

She slid her eyes shut at the shout—he said they'd see the girl again, but she had hoped it might be on their own terms.

"That was quick," Balthier said, turning to Penelo as she stomped up to their table.

"We have a problem," she told him.

He raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Your stupid bounty hunters kidnapped my—" She choked on a pause, and Balthier took the letter she had offered out.

"Your what?"

"Boss," she said at length, and then: "Friend."

He ran his eyes over the scrawling threat, Fran leaning in to read as well: _trade off_ , _conditional surrender, Ba'Gamnan_. She knew the name: he'd been at the prison, and a thorn in their sides for months before that.

"This isn't meant for me," Balthier told Penelo.

"Yeah, I know."

The letter instructed whoever found it to bring Balthier to the Lhusu mines in Bhujerba, where the prisoners would be exchanged. No doubt Ba'Gamnan and his crew had been after him the night of the fete, had seen him arrested with Penelo, had seen Penelo's exchange with Migelo.

"So…" Balthier went on. "Am I to take this as an abduction?"

"I'm not abducting you!"—As though she could.—"You're going to take me there and be the bait."

He folded the letter and handed it back. She snatched it. "And why am I going to do this?"

"The Law of Exchange," she said. "You got Migelo into this, so you have to get him out."

"So, let me get this straight." Balthier leaned back and swirled his drink. "I saved your life, busted you out of prison, and returned you safe and sound to your home, and now that I've been in town all of five minutes, you see fit to order me to risk my life rescuing someone I've never even met from someone who wants my head?"

"But you have met him," Penelo insisted. "The night they arrested us. He's the nicest person in the world. He doesn't deserve this…"

Balthier glanced at Fran. He had a way of being right in the worst of ways, and she might have loathed it if she didn't enjoy it so much.

He drained the rest of his drink in one go and stood. "Well, your audacity is less than charming, but you've got a point." And he flicked a coin onto the table and strode past Penelo, Fran at his heels. "Ba'Gamnan is a problem we've been meaning to deal with for some time now, anyway."

"What?" Penelo asked. "Just like that?"

"I can change my mind, if you'd like."

"Nope. We're good."

They laid out some basics on the way to the aerodome—they wouldn't be following the proposed plan, of course, but then again neither would Ba'Gamnan. They lent Penelo a blade under the condition that she made herself useful, and Balthier insisted that she dunk her head in a fountain they passed along the way to wash the stench of Nalbina from her hair. It didn't work well, but he let it slide.

Rabanastre's aerodome spanned a wide oval at the southern end of the city, one of the greatest airship docking stations in Ivalice, though it earned such fame only because the city had no sea port, and thus compensated for missed trade through increased air travel. The city operated under the protection of a paling—an invisible shell of energy generated by the outer walls to form a dome over all within—which served to bump back and scramble the systems of any ship that attempted to breach the borders without authorization.

Naturally, all pirate ships were officially merchant vessels—Balthier's ship, the _Strahl_ , was three of them, depending on where it was and where it needed to be. Easy enough to assume that if a ship of a certain size took a line anywhere near a bustling city, it was at least a matter of smuggling goods out of Archadia or Rozarria, avoiding the worst of the tariffs and fees. They rarely found trouble docking.

The _Strahl_ was a magnificent Archadian vessel large enough to hold perhaps ten passengers comfortably, and far more cargo than it let on. Its surface was polished to a shine—gold and red and a few touches of white—and its design was sleek, elegant, similar to other Archadian crafts, yet intangibly unique. A prototype, Balthier had told her once; stolen before it entered mass production, which should have been more problematic than it was, considering standardization was a frustrating business even for commonplace skyships—Archadia and Rozarria employing different systems of measurement, each with its own tool set. The _Strahl_ was a necessary mix of whatever was available in whatever port they landed in, Balthier mixing and matching parts with abandon. It seemed a strangely overcomplicated system to Fran, and intentionally so, though Balthier always knew exactly what he needed and where to find it.

Penelo stood in awe of the ship as Balthier typed a code into the keypad beside the entry hatch.

"This is the _Strahl_ ," he said, and the girl smiled, face bright.

"You really are a skypirate!"

"Well, the headhunters seem to think so."

And Fran added: "You could buy your own ship for the price he fetches."

She meant it, too: he had a bounty on his head like she had never seen, and the longer he eluded it, the greater it grew. This job—the Dusk Shard—it was supposed to clear his name, or at least grant them a greater shield, a lower profile. Hope remained, but taking out Ba'Gamnan's gang was still worth their while.

"Is it armed?" Penelo asked, striding up and down the ship's flank and daring to run her fingers along the satin-smooth side panel. "How fast can it go?"

"Hop aboard and see for yourself," Balthier replied.

He pulled down the entry hatch—steps unfolding onto the floor—and Penelo followed him in, Fran right behind them. The girl seemed to know little of airships, marveling as thoughthe cockpit were roomy and the cabin well-equipped. It was a stealth ship—all comfort and décor traded for speed and firepower and the occasional load of illicit cargo or passengers. Its engine was compact, its frame agile, the whole of it lightweight and heavily armed. Penelo had no appreciation for its finest features: military-grade navigation systems and state-of-the-art targeting technology.

"How can that little engine handle all this?" she asked, flitting around, looking over the arsenal.

"Brains over brawn," Balthier replied.

"Why isn't your army using this stuff?"

"Latest model. Not even on the market yet. And I don't have an army." He and Fran took their seats in the cockpit, and Balthier gestured to the second row. "Strap yourself in. She's a bit temperamental."

Penelo bounced down and pulled the belts over her shoulders while Balthier deactivated the gear lock and Fran powered up the navigational controls.

"The shortest way is over Dorstonis," she noted.

"The _shortest_ way?" asked Penelo.

Balthier clarified: "Shortest if you're looking to avoid any Imperial attention."

And Penelo leaned forward a bit. "Bhujerba isn't involved with the Empire."

"Of course not," he scoffed. "She's free as can be. For now. I hear the Imperials have been massing there for the last week or so."

"Oh, no…" Penelo flopped back in her seat.

The engines hummed.

"The latest says the flagship of the Eighth Fleet docked two nights ago," Balthier went on. "Getting ready to shift the assignment of the Judges working Vayne's security detail, among other things."

"You have some good connections," said Penelo.

"Not particularly. Fran's just got big ears." Fran cast a glare his way, and he quickly corrected himself: "Ah— _good_ ears, I mean. Hold on."

The hatch in the ceiling of their docking station rumbled open, illuminated text projected at its rim indicating a gap in the paling beyond. The _Strahl_ lifted from the dock, then bucked as the engines throttled forward—out of Rabanastre, out of Dalmasca, into the bright desert sky ahead.


	11. Chapter X

_X._

The flight to Bhujerba took a full day and two nights, thanks to the positions of Imperial fleets throughout Dalmasca and a port in which Balthier had "entanglements." They reached the sky islands early on the second morning—chunks of land seemingly blown from the surface far beneath them, clouds rolling and breaking on their shores. The larger islands floated above the ocean, only a scattering of resort escapes and private isles casting shadows over the Dalmascan coast. They had all floated above the desert five hundred years ago, when Dalmascan explorers first discovered and settled them, but the years had blown them out to sea slowly—incrementally—drifting in a jostling congregation, occasionally knocking against one another in a rumble of stone and soil.

The settlers had declared the islands a sovereign nation, but the break had gone smoothly, an alliance fostered between the two countries for generations, little evolution mutating their shared language. The Bhujerban accent differed greatly from mainland Dalmascan—harpy, fast-paced, emphasis of the syllables following a different tempo—but the dialects had grown together, mutually intelligible.

Imperial ships idled in all the major aerodomes—the central port too small to house the entire fleet—but Balthier had no trouble getting in, all papers valid, all questions answered. It was the Bhujerban guards at the mines that gave him pause.

"Mercenaries," he noted, eyeing them from one of the island's many cobblestone bridges. "Not a lot of Bhujerbans in the world, but they're well paid and fierce when it comes to their magicite."

"So we look for another way in," Penelo replied.

Two of the guards stood posted at either side of the mine's entrance, while two more sat on a stone bench nearby, eating. Sun drenched the entire island, the soft haze of clouds blurring its glare to a cool white. A few of the nation's citizens came and went on the stone pathways, their clothing as rich as the foliage—deft, colorful, fluttering in the breeze.

Bhujerba's magicite mines were legendary—hundreds of years of cultivation, and still no tunnel had bored through to the ocean below, every inch of the rock ablaze with the coveted ore. But all treaties Bhujerba shared with Dalmasca now belonged to the Empire, including, of course, rights to the magicite trade. The floating islands possessed the most extensive mines in the world, and Archadia now held a near monopoly on the stones, taking the best to power their airships, and sending the remaining notable specimens to Archades and a few other cities of renown or royal favor, leaving the leftovers—the weakest stones—for the world market.

"There is no other way in," Balthier told Penelo. "Once an entrance gets too deep to keep stable, they fill it in and seal it—come at it from another angle. Every mine is guarded—others moreso than this one."

"Wait until nightfall and jump them?" she pressed.

"There will be eight of them after dark," he replied.

Penelo groaned. Images of Migelo haunted her—shackled and shivering in some dark, damp mine, bounty hunters prodding him while he blamed himself for Penelo's arrest.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

She followed Balthier's gaze: a young boy had approached the guards, offering them a letter. All four gathered around him, one smiling, another breaking the wax seal that bound the paper's fold.

"What?" Penelo asked.

"I should have known—four Judges in Rabanastre, an entire fleet drawn back from Rozarria."

"What are you talking about?"

"Imperials," Balthier told her.

The guards stepped aside—let the boy through. One of them gestured into the cavern to give him directions, and he thanked him, smiling, nodding, disappearing into the darkness.

"That's an Imperial?" Penelo scoffed.

"A labhand," said Balthier. "From Draklor Laboratory."

"Draklor?" Fran stepped in, and Balthier strode forward, toward the guards.

"We need to catch up with him."

"Hey!" Penelo launched into motion behind him, Fran huffing and following suit.

"Excuse us," Balthier called to the guards, slowing to a halt before them. "Did you see a little boy just now? On an errand in the mine?"

One of the guards studied him. They all wielded spears, their lightweight armor glinting in the sunlight as it filtered through the clouds. "What business is it of yours?"

"He's a thief," said Balthier. "I'd wager he had a letter with the marquis's seal, or the emperor's."

"The marquis's," the guard replied.

"It was forged. We've been hired to track the brat down."

"Hired by whom?"

"That's not your concern."

Another guard interjected: "Let's go."

And the first addressed Balthier: "You'll go nowhere without our escort."

"Well enough," Balthier answered with a nod.

"Come."

They followed the two guards into the mine a short distance, torches casting shadows where the fading daylight fell short. Deep scores marred the walls—emptied veins of magicite, some a meter tall and twice as deep, stretching in waves all down the tunnel. They struck at the first fork in the road—two guards unconscious in a matter of seconds. Penelo stood in awe—not a word had passed between Balthier and Fran, yet they operated in perfect tandem, one guard each, as little force as possible to achieve the necessary result.

"They'll have heard that," said Fran.

"I'm counting on it," Balthier replied, ducking around the corner of the stone passage.

With a sigh, Fran tapped her knuckles lightly against Penelo's arm, drawing her to the other side of the tunnel and extinguishing a lamp hanging there to shroud them in shadow.

The other two guards came charging inward, rushing to the slumped forms of their comrades, and Balthier and Fran again leaped out, again took them down. Penelo hadn't realized until then how strong Fran was—tall, willowy, but able to drag two unconscious men by their collars to a small supply shed down the tunnel. Balthier picked the lock and unwound the chain from the handles of the double doors, and she shoved the guards in.

"Make yourself useful," he told Penelo, and she hopped up to a third body and seized it by the arms.

She pulled—leaned her full weight into it; the body barely budged.

Rolling his eyes, releasing a huff, Balthier walked up to her and took the man's ankles in his hands to help her. Fran handled the last guard.

Once all four were securely locked away, Balthier straightened his cuffs and studied the diverging tunnels.

"The guard told him to go left," Francesca pointed out, and Penelo marveled a moment— _big ears_ , as Balthier had said.

"Left it is, then," he replied.

"Hey!" Penelo interjected. "We're here for Migelo, remember?"

"And we'll get to him," Balthier insisted. "Eventually."

She clenched her fists, leaned forward. "I'm not chasing after Imperials!"

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a nine-year-old."

"Ten-year-old." It came from a short distance down the passageway—the Archadian boy stood there, a handsome child, fair faced, raven haired, as sleek and elegant as any of his countrymen, albeit all too small in the dim cavern. "And I haven't made half the ruckus you have."

Balthier turned to face him, eyes stern, a hand on his hip. "You got awfully big awfully fast."

"How's the _Strahl_?" the boy replied, continuing toward them.

"Still a brat, though, I see."

"You know everybody, don't you, Balthier?" Penelo stepped in.

He exhaled, swallowing a groan. "Ladies, this is Larsa. Larsa, this is Fran and Penelo."

"Happy to meet you," he answered, restraining an instinctive bow to a nod.

Balthier mussed the boy's hair with mock affection. "He's the youngest of House Vanidicus. They're a cadet branch of House Solidor—fourth cousins to the emperor or some such."

"Once removed," Larsa confirmed, ducking out of the gesture and straightening his hair.

"I don't really know much about Archadia's nobility," Penelo shrugged, trying to suggest with her tone that she didn't _want_ to know much about Archadia's nobility.

"Too many families to keep track of," Larsa agreed, "and they all claim to be fourth cousins to the emperor."

Penelo smiled—she had not expected him to make her smile.

"Are you Dalmascan?" he went on.

"I am."

"I've never been there. Does the sun really shine every day?"

And she hesitated, studied him. For all her life, the Archadians has seemed so cold to her—so rigid, strict, even in their savagery; she had never considered their children, never quite believed they existed. "Yeah," she told him, grinning. "Except for two weeks in the winter when it rains every day. But then all the plants grow, and it smells like a jungle."

Larsa beamed, but Balthier spoke before he could. "Alright, then—pleasantries exchanged. Now how about telling us what you're up to?"

Larsa glanced up, but managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He turned and started down the tunnel. "I thought you were done with the lab."

"So you are working for Cid," Balthier continued, following him. Fran and Penelo took stride at his heels.

"Shall I give him a message?" the boy asked.

"You might ask him to take my bounty down a peg."

"Give his ship back, and I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige."

"Bal." Fran spoke, continuing on in Vieran when Balthier met her eyes.

The halls grew dimmer briefly as the tunnel deepened and widened—the ceiling soaring ten and then twenty meters overhead—but as the lamps and torches grew scarcer, the light did not recede. Rather, it paled—the flicker of fire replaced by the glow of magicite, radiating white and blue and lavender in the walls, the floor, every surface of the mine. Streaks of it swirled through the hewn stone, chunks of it speckled even in the darker patches, and carts cluttered the passageway, heaped with tools and scales and abandoned helmets.

Larsa stopped, gazing up to Balthier and Fran as they conjectured, probably—Penelo thought—following their conversation as distantly as Penelo could, despite not speaking the language: Balthier's bounty was problematic; little Larsa could make for a valuable hostage. But Balthier did not seem agreeable to the notion, and Fran glowered when he refused to offer an explanation.

They fell silent after a moment of stillness, and Fran met Larsa's eyes: "Aren't you going to ask?"

"Trying to figure out a polite way to do it," he said.

She looked ahead and continued on. "Let me know when you've found one."

"So," Balthier told Larsa as they resumed walking, "what's the old bastard want with the mines? Doesn't Vayne keep him well stocked anymore?"

"The prototype has outgrown the refined stones."

"Prototype?"

The boy produced a faceted crystal point from his pocket—perhaps three inches long at the most, and given to a dull, dark gleam, as colorless as the Dusk Shard. "Nethicite," he said. "Completely synthetic."

Balthier fell silent, his expression grave. "Larsa, be careful."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Wait." Penelo stepped in. "What is it? Nethicite?"

"Yes," said Larsa. "Doctor Cid tweaked the formula for synthetic magicite. If it works, a chunk this big could power an entire fleet."

"They have synthetic magicite?" she asked.

He nodded. "For a few years now, but the stuff's useless. Takes thousands of years to absorb enough Mist to build a charge."

"You're losing me here."

And now he smiled. "It gets its energy from Mist—sucks it out of the planet. That's why it glows." He gestured to the shimmering walls around them. "The idea is that nethicite will absorb it faster and hold more of it, so instead of mining magicite, we can just manufacture nethicite and bury it for a few years at a time."

"Cool," said Penelo.

"More power for the Empire is cool?" Balthier asked.

She bit her lip.

"Here." Larsa trotted up to a nearly solid wall of magicite—sparkling, translucent, almost white beneath its glow. He regarded them over his shoulder with a grin. "Any bets?"

"Never," Balthier replied.

And Larsa held the nethicite up to the shining ribbon in the wall. The reaction was instant: a surge of luminosity rippled from the far end of the vein to Larsa's stone, the brightness just breaching the point of glare before retreating into a single point, lightless black stone left behind. Fog engulfed the boy for a moment before condensing down, swirling into the nethicite and vanishing.

"Whoa!" Larsa jumped back a step.

"Awesome!" exclaimed Penelo.

Fran staggered away, holding her head and releasing a grunt.

"Fran?" Balthier asked.

"It's fine," she told him at length. "That stone…"

Larsa held it out. "It's warm."

"Really?" Penelo asked.

"Feel."

She took it from him, the pulse of heat striking her—a lifelike beat—though its rhythm slowed as she held it, the strength of the emanation fading. A faint light appeared to glow at the center of the crystal, first bright and then dim, and then flickering for a second or two. The stone radiated a deep emerald green, nearly turquoise at its depths, creating a mesmerizing play of light on the surface.

"That's so weird," she said, handing it back.

"That's one word for it," Balthier replied.

A sudden noise echoed in the distance—a burst of laughter, haggard and bear-like—and Penelo turned toward it. "What was that?"

Fran turned, too, ears perked. "Three of them," she reported. "Ba'Gamnan."

"Migelo," Penelo replied, and bolted down the tunnel, Larsa quick behind her.

"Hey!" he called. "What's wrong?"

"Penelo!" Balthier shouted. "Damn it!"

She had a head start, and not far to run. She could hear the two pirates giving chase—and she could see four shadowy figures up ahead.


	12. Chapter XI

_XI._

Migelo stood near a wall of the mine that ended a few meters past him—the divide from the mouth of the cavern ending, the two paths reconnecting only to split again some distance down. His iron-bound hands were chained to a broken wheelbarrow which sat crushed beneath a heap of black stone nearly as tall as he was.

Basch stood some distance away, flanked by two members of the Resistance, addressing the bounty hunters that stood between them and Migelo. All swords had been drawn.

"You're in over your head," Basch warned. "Just let him go."

"Were my instructions not clear?" one of the bounty hunters replied—Ba'Gamnan, Penelo reasoned: a thickly-muscled Archadian with a sneer of a smile and a rasping voice. "If you want him back, you can buy him back."

"Migelo!" Penelo called. She galloped straight into the nearest bounty hunter as she said it, shouldering him aside and blowing past him, skidding to a halt between Migelo and Ba'Gamnan with knife drawn. She hadn't noticed Larsa on her heels, but he froze the moment she bulled into the hunter, gaze fixed on Basch.

"Ga—" He cut himself off—barely a syllable, almost a gasp.

Basch studied him, eyes wide, and something seemed to pass between them, dumbed down to silence by bewilderment.

"What the hell is this?" Ba'Gamnan demanded. "An insurgence of kids? Is that all you've got?"

His comrades answered him with a hail of abrasive laughter.

"Penelo," Migelo added, "what are you doing?"

"Back off," Basch growled, clanging the flat of his blade against a nearby boulder, drawing the attention of the bounty hunter Penelo had shoved before he could close in on her.

Balthier and Fran arrived, drawing their blades and extending the Resistance's line to wrap around the hunters.

"More than kids, I'm afraid," Balthier told them.

Larsa lurched forward, ducking through the gap Penelo had opened while the hunters were distracted with the pirates.

"Larsa!" Balthier growled.

"Damn it," Basch added.

The boy slid onto his knees at Migelo's side and set to work picking the locks on his irons.

"Look, Ba'Gamnan," Balthier continued, "you wanted me and you've got me. Though it doesn't look as though you've planned much further ahead than that."

Ba'Gamnan was too concerned with Penelo and Larsa to heed him. "Get lost, you little runts!" He swung his blade, and Penelo deflected it.

Migelo leaped forward, one hand free. "Stay away from them!"

An ear-splitting whistle abruptly cut through the cavern, a jolt of energy rippling outwards with Migelo at its center, knocking them all to the ground and shaking a dusting of stone from the ceiling. A spark flared from Larsa's pocket—the synthetic nethicite—and a deep cerulean glow radiated from Migelo's.

Penelo sat up, shaking her head. "What was that?"

"Ow, ow…" Larsa seized the nethicite from his pocket and dropped it, shaking out his hand while it sat steaming before him.

The light of the magicite veins dimmed—gradually, undulating—until the only a faint luminosity emanating from Migelo's pocket lit the room. He fished through the fabric and pulled out a glowing, fist-sized gem.

"The Dusk Shard," Balthier groaned.

"You worthless rat!" Migelo exclaimed. "You slipped it to me! After the fete!"

Balthier rose to his feet. "Would you rather I let the Imperials confiscate it?"

"Is that why you agreed to help?" Penelo interjected, fists clenched. "Just to get the Dusk Shard back?"

The others found their feet as well, readying their swords.

"He's had it all along?" Basch asked.

And a gristly shout from Ba'Gamnan cut off any response: "Enough!" He grabbed Larsa by the arm and dragged him to his side while his companions advanced on Penelo and Migelo. "Surrender yourself quietly, or I may have to wet my beak a little."

"Keep your snout in the trough where it belongs," Balthier replied.

Ba'Gamnan grit his teeth, but his reply was cut off by a hard elbow to the gut—Larsa next struck low with a heel to the bounty hunter's knee. One of the others lunged at Penelo, but she caught his blade on her own and threw him back against the wall while Basch and his companions jumped in from the other side, swords clashing. Balthier and Fran charged as well, and Penelo turned to Migelo, intending to pull him to safety, only to receive a shove instead.

"The mine," he insisted, eyes looking up.

Penelo followed his gaze, but the rumbling beneath her feet announced the disaster before she noticed the rocks crumbling from the ceiling. The burst of energy the Shard had released, the draining of every magicite specimen in sight—the mine was collapsing, and the rest of the assembly was too busy brawling to see it.

Migelo gripped the Dusk Shard—the cave's only source of light—and pushed Penelo along. "Come on. We have to get out of here."

Penelo glanced through the darkness. "Larsa?"

Larsa leaped out of the fray at a blind gallop, slowing only to swipe the nethicite off the ground where he had thrown it, and grabbing Penelo by the wrist as he passed. "Come on!"

A boulder struck in front of Migelo—dropped from above, a narrow miss that threw him to the ground.

"Migelo!" Penelo called.

"Keep going!"

The others had taken notice, each shouting at their compatriots to run as shards of rock descended around them—but the fissure cracked between them: Penelo and Larsa bolted toward the mine's entrance while the others scrambled deeper in, around the corner to the joining passageway. The tunnel crumbled, stones heaving and rolling, breaking upon each other in a wall of rubble that blocked out all light and sound.

Penelo kept running—engulfed in darkness, Larsa panting at her side—until the rumbles faded into silence. Then she stopped, boots skidding, and turned around.

Only blackness.

"Migelo? Balthier?"

A few footsteps scraped against the stone floor beside her. "We have to go back," said Larsa. "The tunnels connect. If they made it, they'll be on the other side."

"Right," she said. "Right." She turned again and continued running, the faint glow of daylight signifying the mine's entrance in the distance.

She slowed when several silhouettes blocked the sunlight—the guards had roused and escaped; she was sure of it. They would summon backup; they would search the tunnels with lamps. She could see Larsa now, limned in the shadows, and he hesitated at her side for a moment, squinting at the oncoming figures.

"Guards," she whispered.

"No…"

She heard it as soon as he did: thunking, clanking—the thundering footsteps of a Judge, the towering outline of an Imperial helm stark and black against the yellow glow.

Larsa launched forward. "Ghis!"

And an echoing Archadian voice answered him: "Larsa?"

Penelo wavered, watched the boy bound forward fearlessly and receive a heavy-handed pat on the head—which he again dodged with a smile.

"For the gods' sake!" the Judge rumbled.

"You didn't have to come looking," Larsa insisted.

And a third voice joined in, lightened by a Bhujerban accent, mirroring the Archadian they spoke: "What do you expect when you leave your escort locked in a lavatory?"

Penelo edged forward.

"I'm sorry," Larsa replied. "I was running an errand for Doctor Cid."

"That man has an ill mind, my lord," said Ghis. "Can't you find sounder playmates?"

Larsa turned to Penelo and waved her forth. "I certainly can. Penelo!"

Another moment's hesitation, and then her feet took over. If the Dusk Shard was behind her, she wouldn't very well lead a Judge toward it.


	13. Chapter XII

_XII._

The black marble halls of Archadia's royal palace accepted the echo of armor far more eagerly that the vibrant soapstone of Dalmasca's, Gabranth's footsteps resounding behind and ahead of him far enough to ward off any servants occupying the labyrinthine passageways. The high windows soared, views of the entire royal city spanning below, but the grandeur no longer fazed him—the place was morose without Larsa in it.

A fluttering feeling, the first time he heard a babe's cries in the far reaches of the palace—disorienting, ill-placed, so many questions raised by a single sound that he almost doubted he had heard it at all. He had risen in the ranks swiftly—a paradigm of integration after the Empire's first conquest—and he did not do it by prying into the lives of nobles. Judge Ghis, then head of palace security, had laid forth the barest explanation: a distant cousin of the Solidors, orphaned at birth, last of his house, and the emperor was not entirely uncharitable. An easy enough story to believe—raise a young lord and have the fealty of his house for the next two or three generations—but Gabranth had never bought a word of it. Vayne's illegitimate son had been his first guess: the prince was old enough, and even royalty had their indiscretions. And Vayne adored the boy—always in his arms, always on his lap, always the first order he gave upon entering the palace: "Bring Larsa to me."

But Gabranth had never suspected the truth of it all—a secret that could unravel the Empire. Not until a meeting with Rozarrian dignitaries—when several Judges had been ordered to forgo their armor and stand guard incognito in dress uniforms—not until then did he lay the final piece in place. Larsa had been two—had come bursting into the hall at a gallop and stopped short upon noticing Gabranth stationed outside the throne room. Drace caught up to him, studied his fear:

"What's the matter, Larsa? Don't you recognize Gabranth without his armor?"

And Gabranth had kneeled, reached out. "Come on, lad."

A grin, a bound, everything as normal, and he knew then—this child, an anomaly: afraid of a soldier, but at ease with a Judge. A bastard child would not be tended by Judges, would not look on them as his protectors. Not Vayne's son then; Vayne's brother.

Born just before the invasion of Landis—it had always been rumored that the young empress's death had stoked Gramis's bloodlust, rendered him reckless, blind with rage—an easy hostage, a vulnerable bargaining chip to any who knew of his existence: the reason for the secrecy was plain, but to keep him at the palace, at the heart of Archades? If Gramis was blind with rage, he was also blind with love: Larsa belonged in a cottage somewhere, far in the country, shielded from loose tongues and prying eyes; instead, the emperor kept him selfishly near, a whisper away from discovery and death, all so Gramis could dote on him as he never had on his elder sons.

Fair enough when Gabranth and Drace could keep watch—double the usual security—but the emperor had sent them both to Rabanastre with Vayne, and pulled Ghis back from the Rozarrian border to fill the gap. A month apart, and during Larsa's first trip out of Archades. A fleet to protect him, but Gabranth still bristled.

"Will you be good while I'm gone?" he had asked the boy before they parted, and Larsa had smirked, eyes alight.

"Not at all."

"That's my boy."

Sweet little thing—no idea of his power. And Gabranth had no love for the Empire and no interest in serving it beyond his own survival, but Larsa was a secret, slated never to rule, to live as a noble and nothing more, and he was not the Empire—Gabranth would serve him till the end of his days: would do it happily, as he had for the last eight years.

But perhaps of greater secrecy than Larsa's existence was his father's imminent death—a wasting sickness the royal physicians were powerless to cure; it had come down to only a question of time. Emperor Gramis had since the first day of his rule been practical but hardline, keeping with an expansionist doctrine and sometimes using excessive force to achieve his goals, but the Senate had begun to lose faith, fearing that their nation's power dwindled with their ruler's, eager to finish off Bhujerba and ready the final strike against Rozarria. They feared Vayne—called him capable, but peregrine—and it was within their collective power to name a successor independent of the emperor's wishes, rare though the precedent had proven in the past.

With Landis lost, Gabranth cared little whether or not the emperor continued his conquest, but he would not see Larsa forced onto the throne—and for all the hatred he bore Vayne, he trusted that the consul would back him in this.

The emperor awaited him in the throne room—high-walled, stately, appointed with scarlet and gold, more than enough to dwarf the old man. He stood beside the grand arched window, watching the sun set on the western horizon of his Empire while four silent Judges kept watch. He dismissed them when Gabranth entered—they closed the doors with a thundering boom at their backs—and welcomed Gabranth home, a gesture that still tightened the Landisian's throat with shame.

The general inquiries commenced: Vayne's performance thus far, the reaction of the citizenry, that nonsense the night of the fete—should the Eighth Fleet return home, or continue on to Rabanastre?

Gabranth bit back his sigh. "Your Excellency, you know how I feel about this arrangement."

"I do," the emperor told him, "but we cannot keep him here forever."

Gabranth nodded.

"He will have his brother. He will have four Judges at his side—five, for a time. And it will get him away from Cid, if nothing else."

"Lord Vayne has summoned Doctor Cid to Rabanastre," said Gabranth, and the emperor stood very still for a moment.

"I see."

The silence filled the room as much as the sunlight—even in his old age, Gramis possessed the gravitas of an army, able to command the entire palace with his restraint as easily as he commanded the world with his aggression.

"And the lab's funding?" he asked at length.

Again, Gabranth nodded. "I have confirmed he receives funds from Lord Vayne, but their methods of acquiring supplies are too well hidden at this point to be given any certain judgment. Drace feels that Bergan may know more, but we're still in the dark where he is concerned." He could fake an Archadian accent easily enough, but he never chose to do so. It would feel forced—weak. And he had sacrificed all he had ever known for this accursed empire; he would not give them his very voice as well.

The emperor shook his head faintly. "How could Vayne continue this?" he asked. "He and Judge Zecht were so close…"

"So we all thought," Gabranth answered. "He has likely been aiding Cid from the beginning. I'm afraid his agency in the fall of Nabudis is also certain, but without Zecht's testimony, the truth remains difficult to ascertain."

Gramis relinquished a small, bitter smirk. "I have gone two years with the hopes that Vayne knew nothing of Nabudis."

"His fleet aided the attack, but there is no proof he was involved with the nethicite."

"Yet he funds Cid. Is that not proof enough?" The emperor turned his gaze to the sunlight that filtered through the high windows, setting the imposing room alight in jewel tones as the day drew to its close. "The long years have clouded my eyes," he admitted quietly. "I cannot see my own son's heart."

"Sire," Gabranth said—it was a feat, softening his tone in spite of the metallic ring, "it could very well be that Lord Vayne supports the science program for Larsa's benefit. You know how he loves the lab."

"A possibility," Gramis admitted, "but if these are to be the consequences—the Necrohol, for any god's sake."

"Cid is not the type." And quickly, catching himself: "Your Excellency. He is not a killer. I do not believe it was intentional, or at the least I do not believe he expected the full extent of the—results."

"And Vayne?"

"His Excellency followed orders."

"Ah," said the emperor, turning again to face him with a wry smirk, "that Landisian boldness, even when you hold it back."

Gabranth lowered his head. "Apologies, my lord."

"Perhaps you might put it to use for me? I've received several questionable reports on Judge Ghis over this past year—even Larsa says his loyalty wanes. What do you think?"

He cocked his head, painfully aware that such a gesture caused him to take on a puppy-like appearance when masked by the royal armor.

"It has been many years since Ghis led my security," Gramis went on, "and I no longer know him as well as I once did."

"Lord Vayne works with him far more than I ever—"

"I feel just as you do about Vayne. I am asking for your opinion, nothing more."

Gabranth paused, an image etched into his mind of Ghis's face when discussing Larsa's security—of Larsa's face when breaking the news. Ghis was growing old, and such men looked back upon their lives and often saw failure, no matter their successes. All that he had—respect, money, titles—it was not enough: all meaningless compared to what he thought ought to have been his.

"I don't trust Ghis with Larsa," Gabranth reported. "As for other matters, I cannot say."

"Hm." Gramis stepped up to the nearest window, studying the setting sun. "You would trust no one with Larsa but yourself."

The Judge nodded. "And Drace."

"And me?"

"You're his father…"

"Ah, do not worry." He awarded him a small smile, though it quickly faded. "Your devotion is just as Drace described it, and just as I prefer it." With this, he began to cough haggardly, and Gabranth stepped forward, raised a hand, but dared not draw too near.

"My lord…"

The emperor waved a dismissive hand, and continued with a weak rasp. "Gabranth, I must be honest: I have often doubted your loyalty…"

"Your Excellency, I have pledged my life to—"

"I am aware, but Judges have fled before, and it remains fact that once in the past, I laid siege to your homeland."

"The Republic of Landis is long since gone," Gabranth insisted, shaking his head. "My allegiance lies wholly with the Empire." The lies flowed like water these days.

"Perhaps." Gramis' voice grew a bit stronger. "But what of your brother? He did not accept us as you did—he fled to Nabradia. Did you never think to follow him?"

"I follow his every move. We should have executed him long ago."

"Do you truly think so?"

"I would do it myself."

The emperor pondered this for a moment, though Gabranth could not tell if he thought high or low of such a statement, and instead noticed to his own detriment that the glow of the sun's demise vivified the crimson carpet on which they stood—his armor shining silver amidst a river of red.

"So, you would kill even your own brother for the Empire…" Gramis said at last, voice thin. "Your ruthlessness is not without merit, but it must not become this way with Larsa. You must ensure that it does not."

Gabranth resisted cocking his head once more. "Your Excellency?"

"House Solidor has seen many tragedies in these recent years—two sons and two wives I have lost. But you have witnessed for yourself the joy that Larsa has brought me—that he has brought us all." A few more coughs interrupted him, grating on the timbre of his voice and leaving a subtle wheeze in their wake. "These halls had gone so long without laughter that I nearly forgot the sound of it…But the time draws near when Vayne's jealousy should return."

"You believe he would be threatened by even a younger brother?" the Judge asked.

"He does not have to be threatened," said Gramis. "He must merely feel that he is. I now see that you are worthy of my trust, Gabranth; when the Eight Fleet docks in Rabanastre, it is my wish that you remain in Larsa's retinue alongside Judge Drace."

"So then you ask me to be his sword?" he asked. "To strike where he might not?"

"Rather be his shield," said Gramis, "and keep your close watch on Vayne; his is the keenest blade of all." And with this, the emperor was once again seized in a fit of coughs that echoed against the thick marble floors, the chill of incumbent death resonating throughout the palace.


	14. Chapter XIII

Any ideas for a title? Thirteen chapters in, and I'm still drawing a blank.

 _XIII._

The cobblestone streets of Bhujerba passed at a leisurely pace, Larsa bouncing at Penelo's side, bounding ahead once in a while to study a fountain or vault the rail of a bridge, Penelo the focal point to which he always returned. Ghis rattled along at her other side, the accumulation and embodiment of all the nightmares of her childhood, menacing steel helm always pointed toward the boy, and half a dozen high ranking Archadian soldiers strode in a loose semicircle around them, but the weight of the morning's events nevertheless dissipated with the clouds.

The tall figure that accompanied the Judge had greeted her with a smile—aged, but stately, dignified but warm—and upon hearing her Dalmascan accent welcomed her to the island. Marquis Halim Ondore IV—ruler of the Bhujerban isles, and legally next in line to Dalmasca's throne, had the Empire not seized it from the royal family; his elder sister had served as queen, and he was the nearest blood relative of the deceased princess; by all rights, he should have been named the steward of Dalmasca two years ago.

Penelo remembered vividly his address to the people of Rabanastre following the king's assassination, bidding them surrender with dignity, assuring them that the Kingslayer had himself been slain, and that House Solidor would welcome them into the Empire, just as it had Landis and Nabradia. The princess had been buried the day before—Reks the day before that. Like the rest of her countrymen, Penelo would not have listened to anyone but the marquis.

But he was friendly with the Imperials—all business with Ghis, all smiles with Larsa, and Penelo soured to him the longer she walked at his side.

"Were the mines to your liking?" he asked her, and she nodded, struggled to calm her restive eyes and focus on him.

"Yes, they were beautiful. But I didn't go far—Larsa told me it wasn't safe. It sounded like rocks might be falling deeper in."

"Indeed," said the marquis. "If only the young lord could heed his own warnings."

Larsa was walking backwards, studying a hummingbird hovering over a hanging flower as they passed it by: big eyes, soft smile, all the world a wonder to him. "I knew what I was doing."

"That mine ought to have been guarded," Ghis rumbled.

"I will certainly look into it, Your Honor," the marquis replied.

Penelo grinned. "I doubt that would have stopped him."

The boy returned it, but said nothing.

"I daresay I agree," said Ondore.

"You know," Penelo went on, "you're quite the little hero."

Larsa shook his head. "I think that's a matter of opinion."

"So I guess that makes you _my_ hero."

A laugh. "I'm flattered." And then, to Marquis Ondore: "You can fit another for lunch, can't you?"

"Certainly."

He said it before Penelo could object.

They continued on to the marquis's estate, Ghis ordering various guards about in Archadian—Penelo could pick out a few words: _Lord Larsa's guest_ , among others—and at length they arrived at the drawing room, where Ondore paused as Penelo and Larsa entered.

"Well," he told them, "I'm afraid I have work to do. I trust you two can keep yourselves busy around here."

Ghis put a hand on his hip, looming in the doorway. "His Lordship is a bit young to keep busy, Marquis."

"Ghis…" Larsa groaned.

"Oh, surely you can trust him for an hour or so," the marquis went on. "Would it not it be wise for you to supervise the _Leviathan_ 's refueling? I hear there were some technical issues this morning."

Ghis remained dry behind the helmet. "This comes before the _Leviathan_."

"He's got a point, Ghis." Larsa stepped in. "She's old. Sounds downright asthmatic when you start her up."

"Then why don't you take a look?" the Judge questioned.

"And bore Penelo with a bunch of mechanical nonsense? Not very gentleman-like."

"Come now, Your Honor," Ondore continued, his smile smooth. "How much trouble could they possibly stir up on their own for a few minutes?"

The Judge went still for a moment, staring silently at the marquis, and even through the mask of metal, Penelo imagined she could see the glare of disbelief on his face. Larsa gazed upward, tensing only faintly, and the marquis worked to restrain a smirk. After a long moment, Ghis spoke:

"Very well, then. Captain Lockhart will remain here in the hall if you need anything."

"Alright," said Larsa.

"And guards will be posted at all of the estate's doors."

" _Alright_."

"And windows."

"Goodbye, Ghis."

"And you had better still be here when I return."

"Have I ever let you down before?"

The Judge paused for a moment, looking the boy over before at last striding down the hall and out of sight. Larsa rolled his eyes and whispered "thank you" to the marquis, who responded with a smile and a wink. Larsa closed the door, then headed across the room to lift the drapes that shrouded the many high-paneled windows.

"I really can't stay," said Penelo.

"I know," he answered. "We're not staying."

"We?"

"Are you busting out of here on your own?"

And now she folded her arms. "You don't think I could?"

He smirked. "Apologies."

"And speaking of which," she went on, "I thought Judges only worked for the royal family."

"I'm close to the royal family." He drew back the curtains, letting a burst of light stream through across the floor, then pushed the spotless glass pane open and leaned out a bit, surveying the gardens below, making note of his guards' positions.

"The emperor's fourth cousin?" Penelo began uncovering the windows from the opposite end of the room, working her way toward him.

"Once removed."

"And they sent a Judge to take care of you personally?"

"Only while I'm traveling with the fleet."

"You're closer to the Solidors than you tell people, aren't you?"

He regarded her quickly from the corner of his eye, but continued with the windows. "I'm—the last of my house. They've taken me on until I'm old enough to inherit—"

Penelo raised the last shade, and they met in the middle. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

Larsa paused, then walked away from her. "The emperor is my father."

She watched him go, the white marble floor expanding between them as he walked. This lamb of a child, bred of the great House Solidor, raised by Gramis the Conqueror—it was almost jealousy that twisted within her: unfair that the world's most ruthless tyrant should have Larsa for a son; less fair still that poor Larsa should have Gramis for a father.

"But I'll never go near the throne," he said over his shoulder. "Vayne's the ruler. I'm marriage treaty material."

"What?" she asked.

He opened a pantry in the corner, lifting a heap of linens out and dragging them to a nearby settee. She strode up to him and sat.

"Lord Margrace has two daughters about my age." Margrace—the royal house of Rozarria. "No one's mentioned it yet, but it can't be far off."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Why? Bringing peace to two countries at war—it's not a bad thing." He sat beside her and began rummaging through the cloth for corners.

"I guess so," she admitted, eyes down. And then: "Do I have to start calling you Your Imperial Excellency or something now?"

"Please don't."

She grabbed a sheet. "Because you don't like it or because you don't want anyone to overhear?"

"A little of both," he said with a smile. "And anyway, Father's the Imperial Excellency; Vayne and I are just Excellencies."

"Ah."

"Don't tell Ghis you know."

"I won't."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Hey." She snapped the corner of the fabric at him, swatting his shoulder. "Your secret's safe with me."

They were tying corners together: forming a rope—not a long drop from the windows, but the sleek glass manse offered little purchase for climbing. Clouds drifted out the vast strip of windows, pierced by sun rays and occasionally puffed apart by large white birds. The floating island held them aloft in an endless swirl of cerulean sky, the horizon bobbing gently in the haze.

"So," said Larsa, "isn't it only fair now that you tell me your secret?"

Penelo fiddled with the sheet—or was it a table cloth? "What makes you think I have a secret?" she asked.

"The Dusk Shard? I've never seen anything like that."

"I—" She shook her head. "I didn't know it could do that."

"Is it nethicite?"

"I don't know. It's—it's Dalmasca's national treasure. It's supposed to be really old. I mean, they only use it for ceremonies and that sort of thing."

Larsa's hands went still on a knot, and he took the small crystal from his pocket, holding it out. It was scorched on one side, matte black marks cast over the polished surface.

"It's thousands of times more powerful than this one, at least," he said. "They barely came near each other, and it drained half the mine."

She nodded. "I wish I knew what happened."

"Who were those people? If it's a national treasure, shouldn't it be in the capital?"

And now she shook her head. "I really can't tell you that. I'm sorry."

"You have quite a few secrets, don't you?" he replied with a grin, returning the stone to his pocket, and Penelo laughed—just a little.

"Well, it does belong in the capital," she told him, "and I'm trying to get it back there. So was Migelo."

"And Basch?"

She hesitated now, coiling the length of sheet on the floor beside her. "Do you know him?"

"Never met him."

A sigh: "You know his brother."

"Gabranth is in my security detail," he said. "Well, normally. He and Drace were both reassigned to Vayne last month."

"They both follow you around?"

He nodded. "You'd like them. They'd like you."

She grasped for something to say, but came up empty—visibly wilted with it, and Larsa noticed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I just—Judges." She cursed the tremor in her voice; she sounded younger than Larsa. "I—I saw them in Rabanastre with—the consul."

"You're from Rabanastre?"

She nodded, eyes in her lap.

"How's Vayne doing so far?"

A faint smile, fingers working at a knot. "It's—too soon to tell."

He tilted his head, studying her closely with wide, eager eyes. After a moment, he spoke: "The first duty of the consul is to maintain order, right? Vayne doesn't like failure. Maybe things aren't going as well as they might be, but give him a little time and he'll make everything right. Father always tells me my brother is a remarkable man."

"He frightens me." It came out bluntly, weak and uncontrollable.

"Why?"

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, buried her hands in the mound of linen. "I shouldn't talk like that. It's just—you don't understand how much we lost to the war. My friends, my parents…Having an Archadian in charge is like—I don't know. No matter how nice he is to us, it's just hard to trust him."

"So you're afraid of Archadia?"

She swallowed hard, but could think of nothing to say, no words with which to explain war and occupation that didn't outright accuse the boy's family. But he appeared to understand—pushed the sheets aside and took her hand in his, and he kneeled at her feet, looked up at her, met her eyes.

"Listen to me," he said. "My family—we have our flaws, but we always place the needs of others before our own. I won't let anything happen to you. I give you my word—my brother would do no less."


	15. Chapter XIV

_XIV._

Basch had always had to learn from experience—sometimes several experiences. It was unfortunately one of the many things he and the late Prince Rasler had in common, and it had landed them both in plenty of regrettable situations, but he did not feel that the prince would find this one amusing.

Not his first visit to the marquis's estate, but the first time he had been smuggled in through the wine cellar, four armed Resistance members following his every step. He had been treated only nominally better in Rabanastre—Azelas had cleaned him up and fed him until he couldn't eat any more, then gave him his initiation blade and an escort of two soldiers and turned him out onto the street.

"Prove us wrong," he had told him.

And so he made his way to Bhujerba, a slight limp, a black eye, but otherwise up to the task, unwilling to flinch or shudder or cower before the world as he had on his walk to Rabanastre. The two guards watching over him held him tight with glares, but were nevertheless as determined to recover Migelo as Penelo had been.

And that the three of them had done together, though he reported with head hung that the pirates had taken hold of the Dusk Shard—Balthier's jacket thrown over the glowing stone, darkness filling the mine as they all struggled to find their footing in the wake of the collapse. They had run off with it, bounty hunters at their heels, and Basch's escorts blamed him, all interest in Migelo's safety suddenly abandoned.

"Both of you, quiet!" Migelo had shouted through the dark. "We need to report in. If he's really who he says he is, it's up to the leadership to deal with him. We won't get the Dusk Shard back by arguing with each other."

Basch had half wondered why Migelo wasn't among the leadership himself—certainly no kind words for him, but quick to snap at the others if they even skirted the topic, stumbling through the blackened cavern until the glow of daylight broke in the distance. He had led them through a crowded tavern, into the back room and up a flight of stairs, where a skillful exchange of coded greetings put them in contact with a lieutenant in the Bhujerban Resistance.

"You have a lot of nerve showing yourself here," the man had growled at Basch. "Why not take your freedom and run?"

"You really think so little of me?" Basch asked back. "I'm not going anywhere until I've cleared my name."

The lieutenant released a scoffing laugh. "To clear your name would be to ruin Ondore's."

The Bhujerban accent was a thick one, not at all like the precise Dalmascan or sharp Nabradian most commonly heard in the Resistance. Basch's own inflection sounded strong-toned and bulky by comparison. "The marquis truly thought I had been executed," he explained. "He wasn't told of the lie until after he'd made the announcement."

"A dirty trick."

"Ask him yourself."

The lieutenant shook his head.

"Azelas sent him to rescue Migelo," one of his escorts reported. "To prove his loyalty."

"A small price to pay for treason."

"Well," Migelo stepped in, "he did it, didn't he? Send him back to Azelas."

The lieutenant folded his arms and leaned against the desk beside him. "The captain has left Rabanastre in pursuit of General Amalia."

"He's found her?" Basch asked.

"You can't truly expect me to feed you information," the lieutenant replied. "Just because Azelas trusts you doesn't mean we do."

Basch withheld a groan. "I hardly expect you to." He wasn't entirely sure Azelas did, either.

"The marquis will want to see you for himself, and I trust you will wish to speak with him."

"I should like nothing more."

The lieutenant nodded. "Then I'll arrange it."

And so they prowled through the manse, in and out of secret passageways, the setting sun washing the sky with orange and then violet and then an oceanic royal blue out the few windows they passed. Marquis Ondore awaited them in his private study, a marble-walled room with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching tall at the back. The smaller isles of Bhujerba hovered serenely in the distance.

Two guards stood on either side of the marquis, and he regarded Basch with flat seriousness, placing his hands behind his back. "Captain Ronsenburg," he said. "Forgive me for not welcoming your return with higher spirits."

Basch nodded. "I've grown quite used to it."

He then turned to the four soldiers who had accompanied Basch and instructed them to await further orders in the hidden chamber through which they had entered. They obeyed, leaving Ondore's own guards to leer at Basch in silence.

"You are the sword Vayne's strung above my head," the marquis went on with an eloquent growl. "Once he realizes you're free, we'll all be powerless to stop him."

"He'll leave nothing to chance," Basch agreed. "I've heard as much. But please believe I haven't come here as a threat to you."

"Not intentionally perhaps. It was not so very long ago that I announced you had been executed."

"And had you not announced it, it likely would have happened. I came to help the Resistance."

Now the marquis folded his arms and looked upon Basch with almost sarcastic interest. "In what way?"

Basch briefly set his jaw before speaking. "A leader of the Resistance has fallen into Imperial hands—a general: Amalia. I would rescue her, but I need your help."

Only the magicite lamp on the desk cast any light, and it provided mostly shadows. A cloud passed over the windows at the end of the room, momentarily shrouding the estate, and the guards shifted, but their grimness did not falter.

"You understand I've my position to consider," the marquis said slowly.

"Please," Basch insisted. "We are lost without her."

Ondore sighed. "I realize your struggle, but I'm afraid I can be of little service to you. I have heard nothing from the Imperials of a rebel leader being captured. If she was not sent to Nalbina with her followers, she has likely been put to death."

"They would not kill her—she's far too valuable."

"Clearly, if even you have revealed yourself to protect her."

"Even me?"

"Captain Vossler came to me not more than a few hours ago, with both your concern and your resolve."

Basch had to resist releasing a childish huff. "Checking up on me."

"Can you blame him?" Ondore replied. "He was most hesitant to explain the details of the general's position, though—which of course struck me as odd, given that I had never beforehand heard of her."

"I'm afraid this issue demands a certain level of secrecy."

"Ah, yes." Ondore began a slow, thoughtful pacing, the guards stationary, their eyes on Basch. "Secrecy where my great generosity is concerned, but not where convicted traitors are."

"I don't suppose there's anything I might say to earn your trust…" Basch said with fleeting eye-contact.

"Indeed, there is not," he answered. "But as I said, I understand your desperation, and therefore I will instruct you just as I did Captain Vossler: If your leader is still alive, she will be brought to the emperor himself, and the only one other than Vayne whom His Imperial Excellency would trust with such a task is Judge Ghis, who just happens to be here in Bhujerba this very moment."

"I'm afraid I must be slow to trust such coincidence…"

"As was Vossler, but the facts remain: The _Shiva_ went ahead to Rabanastre two days ago, and docked for only an hour before returning to the fleet. Neither Vayne nor Ghis has crossed Archadian borders since the attack at the fete; Amalia is here or still in Dalmasca."

"Then Ghis will answer to me before he answers to Gramis."

"So quick to action?" the marquis scoffed, ceasing his pacing. "Have you forgotten that Ghis is the one who led the conquest of Landis? He commands the entire Eighth Fleet now."

"If I didn't know any better," said Basch, "I would think you're trying to discourage me."

"Not in the least. Ghis is escorting a ward of the emperor's to Rabanastre—the very young Lord Vanidicus."

Basch cocked his head. "Larsa…" And then, receiving a quizzical look from the marquis: "Gabranth has mentioned him." The silence was almost tangible, the question hanging heavy, neither daring to ask it first: _do you know?_ Basch moved on as vaguely as he could. "He can't be happy about that."

Ondore was still, the message received. "Neither is Ghis," he said. "Now is the best time to challenge him—while he is distracted, and too cautious to risk injury to the child. At any rate, you stand a better chance with him than you do with the emperor."

"But the fleet is gathering—they'll be gone by the time I can assemble the Resistance."

The marquis smirked. "If he has a captive in his possession, Ghis will send her into the desert with a detachment and rejoin it on his path to Archades—after stopping in Rabanastre."

"So either I face Ghis now on my own while the boy is aboard," Basch concluded, "or later fully prepared when he's willing to strike? A double-edged sword."

"Indeed," Ondore answered with a nod.

Basch exhaled, jaw tight. "Very well, then. I don't suppose you could get me aboard the _Leviathan_ in a timely manner?"

"Only under one condition," he replied.

"Name it."

"You must swear to me that no harm will come to Lord Larsa from your interference—you know what the retribution would be."

"I would not dare count a child among enemies," Basch assured him. "You have my word."

"Then you have my aid," he conceded, "but surely the exigencies of position are not lost on you. Why indeed, you should find the enemy's chains an easy burden to bear. If you are quite ready, I could have it done now."

Basch nodded, unable to resist half a smirk. "No better time than the present, as they say."

Ondore returned the expression, then addressed one of his bodyguards: "Summon the guard." The man did so, the other pulling his sword free of its sheath and assuming a protective stance between Basch and the marquis.

"Well," Ondore said with thinly veiled exhaustion, "you're going to at least make it look good, aren't you?"

"Of course," Basch replied with a nod, and drew his sword.


	16. Chapter XV

_XV._

Judge Ghis commanded Archadia's Eighth Fleet, forerunner of the western armada—Vayne's former unit. Basch was led in cuffs to the fleet's flagship, the _Leviathan_ , the thrum of its magicite engines reverberating in his chest, filling him with a brief tremor of unease owed largely to having served his time in the military on the ground. Four Imperial guards escorted him through the winding metallic halls of the ship, groans rising from its depths as it lurched out of the aerodome—a morbid echo floating throughout the well-worn chambers and panels. Their final destination was the command bridge, a large, cage-like room floored with metal meshing and surrounded on one end with broad windows, a full view of the night sky ahead. Several Archadian soldiers worked at the controls, while Ghis—towering, armor polished to a near-silver gleam when set against the scuffed steel of the ship—stood in the center of the room, his back to Basch and his guards. Nothing unexpected there, but Basch's eyes grew sharp at the sound of Balthier's voice. Ghis shifted, and there was the pirate, Fran at his side, every soldier on the bridge resisting sneaking glimpses of the tall rabbit ears.

"Balthier?" Basch asked.

Ghis nodded to a soldier at his left. "Fetch Amalia."

The soldier promptly obeyed, and Balthier gave Basch a slight smirk. "Well, now," he said in Dalmascan. "You really don't know how to keep yourself out of trouble, do you?"

"You're one to talk," said Basch.

"Fair enough."

Ghis stepped in, speaking Archadian: "Enough. You've already overstayed your welcome."

"Your Honor," Balthier replied, "such a lack of faith is insulting to my reputation." He took the Dusk Shard from his pocket and held it up with a grin. "I'm more than prepared to hold up my end of the bargain if you hold up yours."

"I'm a man of my word," the Judge insisted. "Give me the stone, and I'll see that you disappear."

"And Francesca?"

"Likewise."

"And the bounties?"

"Gone. Doctor Cid will heed an Imperial writ, and your ship will fly under Archadian colors—no questions asked."

Balthier folded his arms. "All well and good, but how do I know you won't kill me the moment you have it?"

Ghis turned to one of the higher-ranking officers on deck. "Captain! Prepare an Atomos for our friends."

The captain saluted and headed toward the nearest door, but Balthier frowned at the Judge's choice of words, tossing him the stone as he and Fran strode after the soldier. "Oh, have a little dignity. Here's your precious rock. Gods help you if our paths cross again."

"I'm trembling," Ghis groaned.

Balthier cast Basch an unreadable glance as he passed, seeming to appraise the situation, to puzzle a new piece of information into a grander plan, and Basch returned it intently until the door closed, shutting the pirates out of sight.

"Now," Ghis continued, examining Basch with a sharpness evident even through the Imperial helm, "who is this wretch, and what has he done to earn my company?"

"An assassin, Your Honor," one of the guards reported, "caught red-handed in an attack against the marquis."

"Truly?" Ghis asked, raised tone ringing against steel.

"He has sold our independence for his own gain," Basch replied in Dalmascan. "He's a traitor."

"Hmmm…" Ghis placed his hands behind his back, and spoke in Dalmascan as well. "A strike against the marquis, or a plot to recover your general?"

"General?" asked Basch. He had never been as good a liar as he would have liked—he could mask insincerity only with defiance.

The Judge released a short, mocking laugh, but the guard he had sent earlier returned to the bridge before he could respond.

"The prisoner, Your Honor."

The soldier's call drew the attention of all present to Amalia, who walked obediently at his side, free of chains or irons, dressed in a pearly white Archadian-style gown and matching high-heeled shoes—and Basch fell speechless. She seemed taller, somehow—her posture had changed, her very bearing alluding to a different spirit, yet it was her all the same: gray eyes, pointed chin, but a hardness about her mouth, as though a shield had gone up, a wall built brick-by-brick in the last two years. And she'd cut her hair—once grazing her knees, now barely past her jaw.

He must have been staring—she met his eyes, and at once her compliance vanished.

"You!" She stomped forward, fabric flowing behind her, and Ghis lurched toward her—ordered his men to restrain her. Basch fought his restraints—tried to draw back—but the guards on either side of him held firm.

"Amalia—"

 _Slap._

Not much force behind it—intended to shame, not to injure.

"After what you've done!" she shouted in Nabradian. The soldier escorting her took hold of her arm and held her back. "How dare you?"

"Come now," Ghis mused in Dalmascan. "You forget your manners."

"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded in the same language. "I have no business with this traitor!"

"Perhaps not, but you do have business with this." He held the Dusk Shard up—a subtle blue glow shimmering at its core, illuminated by the magicite lamps embedded in the ceiling.

The anger wiped clean from Amalia's face. "How did you—"

"According to legend," Ghis interrupted, producing a knife from his belt with his other hand and advancing upon her, "this stone's power was infused by the very creators of Ivalice. It warrants the quality of blood—it will recognize its rightful owner."

The soldier restraining her forced her arm out and opened her palm for the Judge, who quickly drew the blade across it.

"Don't—" Amalia whimpered.

Ghis placed the Dusk Shard in her bleeding hand, and she closed her eyes as the stone began to glow a vivid cerulean, emitting with its sheen a soft moan like the ringing of steel against steel.

Basch hung his head with a sigh. "Damn…"

"Well, well, well…" Ghis gloated. "Lord Vayne will be very eager to speak with you, Princess."

"I've already said all I have to say to him," she replied, turning her face from her hand as he removed the stone.

Ghis returned the knife to its sheath, and another soldier handed him a vial half-filled with water, which he held beneath her hand. A squeeze, and a few drops of blood dribbled down, clouding the water a misty crimson. "Lend us a bit more," he mused. "I would rather not have you running your mouth when we prove your survival to Emperor Gramis."

She shot him a scowl and yanked her arm free. "I would first and foremost inform him that children wander about his warships unprotected."

This got Ghis's attention—Basch snapped his head up, too—and the Judge leveled his steel-masked scowl on her with piercing ferocity. "And how is it that you should come to know of such things?" he demanded.

"I've spent the last half-hour talking with them," she answered with cat-like matter-of-factness. "Charming kids. I'd hate to see anything ill befall them due to your inattentiveness."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, just a likelihood."

The Judge leaned back as though to consider his options before speaking in Archadian once more: "Guards!" Several jumped at his command. "Take them away. And quarter them separately."

A pair of guards stepped toward the princess, but she glowered at them when they attempted to restrain her, and instead strode between them as they led her out of the room. A quartet of guards handled Basch, one leading and one taking up the rear while the other two stood at his sides. Ghis's metallic bark resounded against the walls as Basch was ushered away from him:

"And you two go attend to Lord Larsa."

The steel-walled corridor beyond the bridge passed calmly, and Basch assessed the soldiers on either side of him—short enough that he could gain the upper hand easily, but getting hold of a sword would prove troublesome, and using it with bound hands gave him pause, if only because he would need a wide range of motion to wipe out the other two guards.

"Eyes ahead!" It came with a jab in the back—the guard behind him, deep-voiced, familiar. He tried not to smile.

He nodded to the right—claimed his first target—and a few steps later he lunged, had the guard on the floor in a matter of seconds and took up his sword—caught the blade of the soldier ahead of him. The one behind him—Azelas, cocky bastard—took out the guard to the left, and delivered a thump to the head of the one at the front while Basch held him at bay. The man fell unconscious, and Azelas took off his helmet and seized the ring of keys from one of their fallen opponents.

"Faster than I expected," he told Basch.

"I thought I was cutting it close," he replied.

Azelas popped the first cuff off his wrist, then set to work on the other. "The marquis has been busy."

"Not lightly did I beg his aid." The second cuff opened, and the irons fell to the floor.

"Listen," Azelas explained. "Ashe's safety has been reliant on my paranoia for the past two years. I could trust nobody…"

"Don't worry," Basch assured him with a nod. "You did your duty—and mine for me."

"I'm getting her out," he went on, relieving one of the unconscious soldiers of his sword. "I need your help."

"Of course."

"This way."


	17. Chapter XVI

Still struggling with a title. This is harder than I thought it would be.

 _XVI._

"It was an accident," Amalia insisted.

"You don't have to lie for them," Larsa replied.

Penelo watched as he bandaged the general's hand through the bars of her cell—had helped him raid the medical kit just moments ago—but still had trouble seeing past the dress: a general in the Dalmascan Resistance, who attacked the emperor's heir in the sand-dusted pants and work shirt of a laborer, draped in Archadian finery like some prize pillaged from conquered lands.

"Anyway," Amalia went on, "it's not bad."

"It doesn't matter how bad it is," said Larsa, "prisoners aren't to be harmed. It's the law."

"It's only a scratch."

"I'll tell His Excellency when we get to Rabanastre. He'll make sure there are consequences." He tied off the bandage, and Penelo offered out a pair of scissors, but he ignored them, ripping the cloth instead.

Amalia's eyes narrowed with the hint of a smirk, though her mouth barely moved. "You don't trust me with scissors?"

Larsa smiled. "Well, you are a prisoner."

Penelo gripped the little blades tightly—she hadn't even considered it. But he was smart—Larsa—so smart. Even now, he must have known that Penelo had been working with the Resistance, that he was helping her return to them. She had wasted much of the day avoiding the topic, dodging his questions until he stopped asking them—Migelo was only her friend, Basch was questionable at best, she really didn't know much of anything, just that she had to get the Dusk Shard home. Vague enough lies to raise suspicion in anyone, but Larsa—he led her onward, searched half the island, aided her in her quest until three Imperial soldiers caught up to them splashing around in a fountain.

And then it was dinner time—no consequences for a misbehaving prince, only a stern word from Ghis, a smile from Ondore, and a five-course meal that had enough Dalmascan food mixed in to mitigate Penelo's revulsion for Archadian fare. She shrunk away from the memory: the marquis had sent his own maids to wait on her, to dress her for the meal—Archadians had to change clothes for every minor event of the day—and told her to keep the dress afterwards. Her gown was not as elegant as Amalia's—lavender and pale sky blue, more Bhujerban than Archadian—but she nevertheless had no right to sneer.

They had barely finished with the bandaging when the door to the cell block whisked open. Captain Vossler stepped in—last of the lost Order of Dalmascan Knights, and far more amiable than the last time Penelo saw him, though he donned the plated uniform of an Imperial soldier at the moment.

"Your Highness," he said, and Amalia rose from the floor where she had crouched.

"What?" Penelo asked.

And then Basch stepped in behind Azelas—nearly a new man from what he had been in Nalbina: still in need of several meals and a good night's sleep, but somehow younger looking, and stronger, with bright green eyes and warm blonde hair—even his limp proved barely noticeable anymore.

"Penelo," he said, "it's best not to ask."

Penelo looked at Amalia—dark-haired, the proper age, and all the Resistance ablaze with concern; and Azelas: _Your Highness_.

"But…" Penelo stammered. "You were…"

"What's he doing here?" the princess interrupted.

"Highness, please," Azelas begged, "we'll talk later."

"Later?" she growled. "I will not place my trust in the sword of a defector!"

"Highness?" Larsa asked.

Basch closed the door to the hall, and Penelo didn't blame him. Azelas was hitting buttons on the control panel by Ashelia's cell.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she told Larsa and Penelo.

Larsa smiled. "Halim will be so happy to see you."

"Oh…uh…" The princess struggled, hands on the bars, eyes fixed on Larsa's.

"That may have to wait," Azelas stepped in. "For now it's better that the marquis not know. It would create a conflict of interest, given his position and hers."

"Given his position and hers," Larsa replied, "I doubt much would change."

Penelo sighed. "You know?"

And the boy smirked. "I'm not with the insurgence, if that's what you mean."

"Resistance," said Ashelia.

"Well, then," Azelas continued, "given your position and ours, perhaps it's best that _you_ not know."

"I already do," said Larsa. "And you're going to set off an alarm if you keep that up. Let me."

He took a pin from Penelo's hair and set to work on the lock to Ashelia's cell with it. Penelo had learned quickly that doors were permeable to him—negotiable. He had momentarily gotten them both stuck in a storage cabinet when the guard came to take Ashelia moments ago, but even that had been only a matter of unanticipated darkness, and he fumbled through it with laughter.

The princess gazed at him now, suspicion seeming to overshadow her gratitude. "You would really let me leave?" she asked. "Knowing who I am?"

"By all rights, you shouldn't even exist," said Larsa. "Technically, I'm not letting anyone leave."

"Well put."

"Is there a shorter way to the docking bay?" Azelas asked.

"The guards aren't far off," Basch reported from the door.

Larsa gestured, still at work on the lock. "Just keep going this way. If you take the first left, you can jump down to the bay—no stairs." And then: "You're Gabranth's brother, aren't you?"

Basch paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully. "Yes."

"He said you were dead."

"That doesn't surprise me."

Ashelia narrowed her eyes at Basch, but said nothing.

A screeching alarm cut the conversation short, echoing throughout the steel halls of the ship in tandem with the flashing of red emergency lights. Larsa turned his eyes upward.

"Ghis must be on to us," he groaned.

Azelas shook his head. "Just what we need."

"There!" A small metallic _click_ sounded their victory, and Larsa pulled the barred gate open.

"Nice work!" exclaimed Penelo.

"Thank you, Larsa," Ashelia added as Azelas handed her a spare sword.

The boy smiled brightly, handing the hairpin back to Penelo. "My pleasure."

"Alright, then," said Azelas. "First left."

Ashelia nodded. "Right."

Penelo turned to Larsa. "Larsa, you should stay here. I don't want you to get in trouble because of us."

"You're going with them?" he asked, tilting his head.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't belong here."

"We don't have long," Ashelia told them, heading down the hall.

"I understand," said Larsa. "But—would you…" He glanced downward, then took the synthetic nethicite from his pocket and held it out to her. "Here. I want you to keep it."

She took it, fingers hesitant, searching his eyes. "Doesn't Doctor Cid need this?"

"He'll get by. It's brought me good luck up till now; maybe it will do the same for you."

She clutched the stone in one hand and placed the other on his shoulder. "Thanks, Larsa. You're my hero." With this, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, which he answered with a grimace and a childish "Ew!"

"Come on!" the princess urged.

She dashed after her, but called over her shoulder in Archadian before disappearing into the metal tunnel: "Goodbye!"

Larsa stood motionless, staring after her with a dumbfounded smile.

His directions were accurate: a metal balcony overhung the _Leviathan's_ docking bay, just low enough that they could drop down and have their choice of several shuttle crafts. More than one open entryway exposed the fresh night sky, lit but minimally by the recently fallen sun, and the floating isles of Bhujerba remained visible on the horizon—within the distance of an Atomos, the small ferry ships used to transport soldiers and personnel between the larger vessels.

"Your Highness does not disappoint."

The words echoed, tinged with a deliberate sense of boredom: Judge Ghis entered the hangar with a sizable group of soldiers at his back. They fanned out, swords drawn, and Basch and Azelas raised their blades, standing at the princess's sides, while Penelo—unarmed—was taken aback by Ashelia's hand on her wrist, pulling her close, protecting her.

"Ever quick to spurn an honorable surrender," Ghis went on, "as was your father."

"You know nothing of my father!" Ashelia flared in reply.

"Such a great shame," he said with a small laugh. "I must confess: I thought you the one who would help us restore peace to Dalmasca. Lord Vayne would readily place you on the throne at his side, if you would welcome an Imperial treaty as amiably as you welcomed the Nabradian one."

The guards spread out silently, moving behind the group of escapees blocking the exits, leaving only open air on either side and Ghis at the front.

"No matter," the Judge continued, taking a glowing piece of magicite from his belt. "We hold the proof of your royal lineage; a maid of passing resemblance will serve our purposes now."

He triggered the stone's energy, releasing it upon the group in what ought to have been a killing blow—but the streaming bolts of energy that lit the room did no damage. They burst, roared, and then fizzled out in the air, descending upon Penelo's hand and vanishing with a hiss. She jumped back, eyes wide, Ashelia spinning to face her and reeling a step away.

"What was that?"

"The nethicite," she whispered breathlessly. The stone was warm, glowing green and then fading; it pulsed.

"Damn it, Larsa…" Ghis groaned in Archadian, drawing his sword.

Ashelia and her bodyguards steadied themselves against the floor, blades raised—but a shout sounded from beneath the walkway before they could come to blows:

"Penelo!"

She turned, scanned the docked vessels. "Fran?"

"Down here!"

An Atomos rose from beneath the hangar—hovered near the ships beside them—and Fran gestured to them from the top hatch to jump. "Hurry!"

The ring of clashing swords sounded—the soldiers had fallen upon the group, and Basch and Azelas had met them with due haste.

"Do it," Basch called, and Ashelia scowled, but Azelas urged her onward.

"Just jump!"

Penelo and the princess dashed for the ship, the soldiers closing in behind them, and leaped from the edge of the dock, their dresses fluttering behind them. They landed on the roof of the tiny ship below and slipped into the open top hatch beside Francesca. Basch and Azelas shoved three soldiers backwards into the rest and jumped. The little craft took off, agile amid the other ships, its preassigned clearance enough to get it out of the fleet's range before Ghis could pass on orders to shoot it down.

"What the hell was that?" Penelo demanded of Fran as she shut the hatch and led them into the cockpit.

"You're welcome," she replied.

"Where is he?" the girl pressed. "I'll kick his ass."

"Who?" asked the princess.

"Balthier," said Basch, gesturing to the pirate himself as they entered the cramped cockpit. "The bastard who gave Ghis the Dusk Shard."

Balthier sat at the controls, focused more on eluding the fleet than taking credit for his work, and Penelo might have socked him had her life not been in his hands at that particular moment.

"After he stole it from me," she growled.

Ashelia glared, and Azelas spoke for her: "You almost got the princess killed."

"I got her into it, and I got her out of it," Balthier defended, and then, glancing up to Ashelia: "And you are the late princess, then? Does that make you a Highness or a Majesty?"

She folded her arms. "Legally the first, technically the second. Regardless of your actions in the past, I suppose we owe you our gratitude…"

Balthier's smile widened. "I'm a businessman, darling, not a philanthropist; we've already contacted the marquis, and he'll be happy to buy you back."

"What?" she snarled.

Penelo clenched her fists. "So you're a bounty hunter now, too?"

"If you can't beat them, join them," Balthier replied.

"This has been our most profitable day to date," added Fran.


	18. Chapter XVII

_XVII._

"Those decrepit, basking fools in Archades tie my hands, and look what happens! This country's obstinacy knows no bounds."

"The Senators could not have known this would happen."

Drace—dry, calm, dangerously intelligent: she always set Vayne on edge, and he suspected she wasn't even trying.

"Do you really think them that ignorant?" he asked her.

"Perhaps it would be prudent to disarm them before confronting them," she replied.

He rolled his eyes. "What do you think Father's been trying to do the last two years?"

They stood in his office—the dead king's office—and he found comfort in speaking his native language with her, but he still wouldn't quite turn his back to her. Drace was the second oldest of the Judges who personally guarded the Solidors—younger only than Ghis—and had in her time watched over both empresses. Gramis trusted her unwaveringly, even to the point of assigning her to Larsa's security within an hour of his birth—without consulting Vayne. Vayne himself did not know her very well, and did not think she particularly liked him—or liked anyone—but he had seen her fight and had nothing but respect for that tenacity.

"Excellency," she droned, armor shining, hands behind her back, "the insurgents in Rabanastre operate alone at present, but should they garner external support, the situation could worsen. Once you get them out of your way, you will be safer to go about assisting your father in fulfilling his ambitions."

"More easily said than done."

Even with the judicial helm masking her face, Vayne could sense the boredom of her expression, could tell she only smiled when Larsa was around. She had the sort of smile one could hear, and it was audible whenever she spoke to the boy—even when she reprimanded him.

Vayne himself had been placed in the care of three Judges over the course of his life: Ferrinas held the longest post, serving as his guardian and surrogate father for his first sixteen years, before falling in battle at Vayne's defense—a Solidor tradition, joining the army at the earliest possible age. Neither the first nor the last of many tragedies for which Vayne held his father accountable, but the hatred—the mourning—was cut short by the appointment of Judge Zecht as a replacement.

Ferrinas had been a family man, but Zecht was a military man—no weakness allowed, not on his own part nor on Vayne's—and after seven years of servitude, it became clear that Zecht longed for the battlefield. Grudgingly—Larsa's eyes wide and wet—Vayne arranged a transfer, placing Zecht at the head of a ground fleet where he belonged, and placing his current guardian, Bergan, at his side as both bodyguard and political advisor where he belonged.

But Drace—she would be at the Rozarrian border, if not for Larsa's love. The same or worse for Gabranth. No proof that lax security had aided the ambush at the fete—the attempt on his life just as charming and unsophisticated as the rest of the night had been—but Vayne knew the way the Senate thought, and if anyone had the guts to agree to such a plot, it would be Drace. Not that she would see Larsa made Emperor; the Senate had only tolerated his father as long as they had because they could see the end in sight—because they believed their patience would be rewarded—but Drace had never forgiven Vayne for his past, and she would sooner see Larsa on the throne than in the ground.

To that extent, they agreed—and if there was any pressing necessity in Rabanastre, it was in securing the palace enough that Larsa could visit. The military had meant months away from his little brother, and Vayne would not tolerate it any longer—had promised Larsa he wouldn't. The nobles of Archades were not known for grand displays of emotion, even the children learning early the value of reserve and restraint, but Larsa was possessed of an occasionally impulsive spirit that no one had yet been able to bring themselves to check. And true, the boy had at least been obedient enough to take a proper guard with him on public outings—Drace, or Gabranth, or both—but he was growing, curious, full of adventure, and would not be kept away from anything as exciting as Rabanastre for long.

Drace shifted slightly. "We have found the counter-Imperial elements in Bhujerba to be conspicuously well-funded. No doubt Marquis Ondore is behind it—why not start with him?"

"The marquis has written us a letter," Vayne replied, eyes flicking once to the clock before returning to the impenetrable helmet. "He claims that he's recaptured our runaway. He's given him to Ghis."

"Ghis would do well to give him to Gabranth," Drace replied.

"Speaking of fraternity," he continued, "what the hell is taking so long?"

"The _Leviathan_ is still in docking," she said. "Last I heard, Larsa was getting a good tongue-lashing from Ghis."

"Oh, gods, what did he do now?"

"Nothing His Honor wasn't asking for, I'm sure."

The corner of Vayne's mouth turned up—he could feel it tightening, against every shred of Archadian rigidity bred or beaten into him.

"The fleet appears to be somewhat smaller than it should be," Drace went on. "The _Shiva_ did not come along."

"Well." He left it at that for a moment, one eyebrow raised. "Ghis and I will have to discuss it."

And a call burst out from down the hall—an instinct surging through Vayne, a smile he couldn't control.

"Vayne!"

He stepped away from the desk and dropped to a knee, and Larsa rushed into his arms at full gallop. "Larsa!"

Doctor Cid followed after him, tall, easygoing, his countenance warm as he entered the office and came to a halt beside Drace. She placed a hand on her steel-plated hip, and Vayne could hear her smile when she spoke:

"I trust you left Judge Ghis in one piece?"

"Hey, Drace," Larsa replied with a grin—Vayne was mussing his hair. "He's better off than he was when you left him with me."

"I thought I left you with him."

"How did you get so tall?" Vayne asked, rising to his feet and holding Larsa back by the shoulders.

"Practice," Larsa answered.

Vayne laughed. "I swear you get bigger every time I see you…"

"Smarter, too," Cid stepped in. "The lad is fast on his way to putting me out of business."

"I believe it," Vayne replied.

And Larsa turned to Cid with eager eyes. "Did you tell him about the nethicite?"

"What?" Cid asked. "That you lost it?"

"That's the point," the boy insisted. "We can make more!"

"True enough," Cid relented with a laugh, and then, to Vayne: "Still plenty of kinks to work out, but our mining days are nearly over."

"Wonderful news," said Vayne. "Father will certainly be proud."

"And speaking of family," Cid went on, "you may soon have a sister-in-law."

"Hey!" Larsa exclaimed.

"Will I?" Vayne asked with a smirk.

"No!"

"Supposedly she lives here in your city," Cid explained. "I would think a proper introduction is in order…"

"Absolutely not!" Larsa snapped.

Cid laughed, and Vayne rustled his hand in the boy's hair once more. "Good work, Little Brother!"

Larsa groaned, and Drace finally stepped in:

"Oh, quit embarrassing him. We're not going to terrify the poor girl for sport."

"You'll give her a week to mount her defense, right?" Larsa asked.

"I was thinking two," she replied, "but if you think one will do…"

This got a laugh out of him, but it didn't last long. "Where's Gabranth?"

"He had some work to do," said Drace.

"What kind of work?"

"Nothing important. He'll be back tomorrow night."

"Drace?"

"Yes?"

"I'm ten, not stupid."

Drace looked to Vayne for further instruction, and he tilted his head back and groaned. Cid laughed.

"It has something to do with the Resistance, doesn't it?" Larsa went on.

"Now how would you know about that?" Vayne asked.

"Word gets around."

At this, Cid stepped in: "It seems the honorable Judge Famran has returned."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Vayne. "I just sent him to prison."

"Yes, well," Cid mused, "he always was an unruly little buck."

"He was working for Ghis," Larsa explained, taking the Dusk Shard from his pocket and offering it up to his brother. "Brought him this."

Vayne's eyes widened, and he took the stone slowly. "My gods…"

"The Dusk Shard, right?"

"I believe so. I didn't even know it was missing…"

Larsa smiled—shrugged—bought the lie easily from one he would never suspect of deceiving him.

"Thank you, Larsa. This could have buried my credibility."

"What would you do without me?" the boy replied with a laugh.

"Nothing well, at least," he answered. "Now, I know you just got here, but Cid and I have some work to finish up; why don't you go get settled, and I'll show you around the palace later?"

"Alright." He headed for the door with Drace at his side, but looked over his shoulder before exiting. "But you'd better not have any fun without me."

Vayne shook his head with a smile. "Not possible."

Larsa grinned back and finally departed, a still dimness descending in his wake, the breadth and weight of Dalmasca's sand again noticeable in every direction—to Vayne, at least. He watched the boy walk down the hallway for a moment more, then ordered Judge Zargabaath, who stood guard outside the office in Bergan's place, to delay any visitors for the next few minutes. And then he closed the door.

"Ahh," Cid said, "youth is so endearing…"

"A Dalmascan girl?" Vayne replied, handing him the Dusk Shard.

"Seems so. I've not met her, but I've certainly heard an earful about her." He paused for a moment, and then added: "This could be good for you—make peace with the occupied."

Vayne glared. "That wasn't my concern, Cid. How is it that a royal prince should have any contact with a foreign peasant—let alone enough to give you an earful about?"

"He slipped his guards again, of course," the doctor explained with a shrug. "Drace and Gabranth are at least wise to his methods; Ghis didn't stand a chance."

And now Vayne briefly closed his eyes to keep himself from rolling them. "Look. Larsa has tight security for a reason. I am not without respect for your work, but you must stop encouraging him."

"I told him not to go off without asking permission."

"Ask permission he will do—it's getting permission that eludes him."

Cid sighed. "Yes, yes, I know. I'll see what I can do, but if this new friend of his isn't too intimidated by all the trappings of royalty, he may soon lose interest anyway."

"Don't talk like that," Vayne said. "When I'm Emperor, my first order of business will be to marry him off to some Rozarrian princess and be done with it."

"Harsh…"

"It's for his own good."

"Ah, harsh but true."

Vayne shook his head, turning to the great window behind him and looking out over the courtyard. Several locals worked to repair the stonework there—a casualty of the fete. "I won't have him drafted into the army to boost Father's pride, or forced onto the throne to be manipulated by the Senate. He'll enjoy his job as I enjoy mine."

"I sure hope so," Cid replied. "Venat's been rather hung up on it. You were kept waiting fully two years."

"Patience pays off," he said, and turned again to face Cid. "So, what news of Archades? I hope our honored friends in the Senate haven't been giving you too much trouble."

"Oh, they're hard at work as always," said Cid. "Finding a suitable dagger for your back."

Vayne smiled. "They're welcome to try."


	19. Chapter XVIII

_XVIII._

"That's it?" Ashelia asked, eyes fixed on the case of money, bills bound in packs one hundred thick.

Balthier and Fran each took a stack out and flipped through them before depositing them back in the case and shutting it.

"For a general in the insurgence?" Balthier replied.

A sigh: "Resistance."

"It's more than most would pay."

"Ondore's funds are focused on outfitting a fleet," said Azelas. "Our failure at the fete proved our weakness on the ground. In the sky, we at least have the advantage of Bhujerba's magicite."

They stood in the marquis's office, servants in trust of the Resistance standing guard in the low light of magicite lamps. It was nearly midnight, and although Balthier had docked the _Atomos_ in the aerodome without trouble, a small detachment—led by the _Shiva_ —docked in pursuit not far behind. The Resistance had conveyed them to the estate safely, and it seemed so far that the Imperials would be wise enough not to provoke the marquis by questioning him on the matter—they already had the stone and a vial of the princess's blood, after all; they could undermine her more easily than they could capture her.

"Vayne tore apart our ground troops with the air brigade," said Ashelia. "Halim will run Bhujerba into the ground trying to compete with that."

"Well," Balthier stepped in, "that sounds like our cue to leave. Penelo?" She glanced up to him—she hadn't taken her eyes off the princess since they landed. "Looking for a ride back to Rabanastre?"

"I—" She looked from him to Basch to Ashelia and back, and the princess gave her a nod.

"Thank you for your aid, Penelo. You can return to your station now."

Her eyes lit up, and she bounced once on her toes. "Uh—you're welcome—ma'am. Glad I could help."

Balthier waved her on. "We'll toast to the general first, of course."

Ashelia glowered.

"Come on, Fran." The two Resistance guards led them into the secret passageway attached to the office. "Let's get wasted and pretend we own the place."

"Again?" Fran replied.

They vanished into the tunnel, the door falling shut behind them, the bookshelf mounted on its back sliding into place. Only the princess and her knights remained.

"The marquis has been assembling resources for this air strike since the day Nabudis fell," said Azelas. "Your lord father intended to join him in it."

Ashelia shook her head. "Just because my uncle bought me out of incarceration doesn't mean his intentions for Dalmasca are pure."

"Your Highness," Basch interceded, "he would not go through the trouble if he didn't have your best interests in mind."

"Who are you to speak of my best interests?" she shot back.

And he returned her glare. "Are you so stubborn as to blind yourself to the present in order to focus on the past?"

"Dalmasca and Nabradia passed to Halim's stewardship," she growled, "and he stood back and let Archadia claim them. You would have me crawl to a coward for aid with a traitor at my side? You would have me live in shame?"

"If that is your duty, yes. It was by his counsel that we were able to free you. He may act in league with the Empire, but his heart is not."

"And what of _your_ heart? Do you even have one?"

"Will you two knock it off?" Azelas interrupted. "It is as he says. I ought not have kept Ondore at so great a distance for so long a time."

"You were being cautious," Ashelia replied. "Just as I am now."

"Highness," Azelas pleaded, "Basch was framed by the Empire—the only reason he still lives is to keep Ondore obedient."

She folded her arms. "And in what ludicrous way does that work?"

Azelas turned to Basch, and he released a breath, training his voice low as he explained: "Ondore announced to Dalmasca's citizens that I was executed. If they find that I'm still alive, they'll assume he works for Gramis."

"And I'm the only one who sees the remedy to this situation?" said the princess.

Azelas laughed—once, bluntly, quickly bedded down—and Basch rolled his eyes.

"Thanks, Vossler."

"Look," Azelas continued to Ashelia. "It's a difficult story to believe, but you must hear him out."

She turned her gaze to Basch. "Isn't that what I'm doing?"

"It was my brother," said Basch—eyes hard, looking away.

"Your brother?" she scoffed in reply.

He nodded. "On Vayne's order. They lured us in and ambushed me. I thought he had been killed in Landis…"

"Twins," Azelas added.

The princess raised an eyebrow. "Identical?"

Basch nodded. "In appearance only, I assure you."

"He is a Judge," Azelas went on. "Gabranth."

"Larsa recognized you," Ashelia said with a sigh.

"Ashe," said Azelas, "for the last few days, our only thought has been your safety; we have no plans yet for dealing with Vayne, and certainly none for dealing with you, if you'll forgive my tone. I need more time—just a day or two. We are weak on our own, and once the emperor hears that you're alive, he will be that much more determined to destroy us."

"You're leaving," she growled.

"We can't just put you on the throne and declare two conquered countries yours," Azelas defended. "We must find some other way, and we can't risk you being captured again. I know you have your doubts, but until I can shore up our defenses, I would have Basch take my place at your side."

"I've placed my life in your hands," Ashelia sighed, "and if you choose to place it in another's—who am I to argue?"

"I knew you would understand," he replied with a smile. "Just don't kill him—he comes in handy from time to time."

The princess socked him lightly in the arm. "Sort of like you."

"Wait for me here." He returned the gesture. "Ondore will keep you safe."

She nodded. "I understand."

And then Azelas turned his gaze to Basch. "Ronsenburg."

"Always watching?" he asked.

"Always."

With this, he too disappeared into the passage behind the bookcase, and silence descended upon the room. Basch studied the princess for a moment—her fingers trembled, eager for the hilt of her sword, and her face had softened in Azelas's wake, a stillness there that looked as though it might shatter.

He stepped to her side. "Ashe—"

"Listen," she snapped—gray-eyed glare back in place, tone low and firm. "I trust Azelas, not you. If I suspect for even a moment that you're working for Archadia—"

"I've heard this all before, Highness."

She fell silent, eyes fixed on him a moment more, and then looked away—walked away, leaned against the wall and stared at the floor. With a sigh, he did the same.

It was then that a glint caught his eye—a tiny silver gleam, flashing in the glow of magicite: Ashelia's wedding ring. He studied it from the corner of his eye, trying not to let a scowl of confusion cross his face. Even should he be exonerated of the king's murder, there would always be Nabudis—there would always be Rasler.

When the prince had finally succumbed to his injury, Ashe had assured Basch that she did not hold him accountable, had insisted to her father that he would join her retinue, but that did not spare him the guilt. He had been given a chance to redeem himself—he had been given the opportunity to beat the Empire back and raise Dalmasca's forces against it—and he failed: her father died under his guard, just as her husband had before him.

"You never said anything about having a brother."

It came out calm, but he recognized the intensity beneath her breath. He could not explain it to her—that Landisians did not discuss the past, that they had no word for it, that even now, after more than a decade away from his homeland, he had trouble understanding the significance that other cultures placed on wounds long healed. The past was a warning for the future, certainly, but to dwell, to wallow—nothing came of it. A fluid thing to him: it came and went and could not be changed.

"I'm sorry," she said before he could reply. "It's different to you. I forgot."

"It is," he told her.

A beat, and then: "What will you do if you ever catch up with him?" A fleeting wisp of emotion softened her voice, as though she truly longed to believe him.

"I'm not entirely sure," he said.

"Haven't you ever thought about it?"

"I try not to."

A small click broke the silence between them: the door to the office opened, and Marquis Ondore stepped in.

"Marquis," Basch said with a nod.

"Captain," the marquis replied, and the firmness of his composure relented when he met eyes with the princess. He stood speechless for a moment, watching her step toward him, away from the wall, and faintly—distantly—he let the door shut at his back.

Ashelia spoke with a heavy breath: "Uncle Halim."

"Ashe!" A smile broke the shock on his face, and for a moment he looked older than he was—weary, exhausted. He drew nearer, but dared not embrace her. "I tried not to get my hopes up, but…"

The princess nodded, taking his hands. "It's good to see you, too."

"I hope you will forgive us for not telling you sooner," said Basch.

"We weren't entirely sure of your allegiance," Ashelia added.

He nodded. "I hope it is more than obvious now."

"It is," said the princess, "but we've other worries to tend."

"Of course." He released her, shaking his head faintly, rebuilding his façade. "Have you crossed paths with Captain Vossler? I sent him to your aid as well."

"I have," she answered. "My—death—it was his idea from the beginning. Everyone assumed him dead after the Nalbina incident, so he brought me with him."

"Ashe, how could you abandon your country in its time of need?"

"What other options were there? Fake my death or meet a real one—I'd be of no use in the grave."

Finally, Ondore recovered his composure and spoke in the tone of a true public official. "And how useful are you now?"

"I don't need a lecture, Uncle," Ashelia snapped back. "I know when I am beaten. At this point the Resistance is dependent solely on you."

"On me?"

She gestured. "Your money, your influence, your connections to the Empire…"

"All becoming more and more limited as the seasons turn." He lowered his chin to level a glare on her—it ran in the family, Basch noted—and stood still, his hands behind his back. "My compliance spared Bhujerba a hostile takeover; it afforded me enough power to calm my people—to prevent rioting and bloodshed—but I still must heed the emperor. With Lord Vayne so near now—with Rabanastre's air brigade at his command, in addition to the coastal fleets and Nalbina's sky garrison—I cannot continue to operate in secret. I am no more useful in the grave than you."

"Marquis," Ashelia pleaded, "we are running out of support as it is—we can't afford to lose you, too."

"What matter is losing me if you have been gained?"

She shook her head. "Just because I am a valid heir doesn't mean I am powerful. I need help—as much as I can get."

"And yet in two years you have made no attempt to contact me."

"Did you truly expect me to, given your actions as of late?"

The marquis lifted his chin—seemed to look down on her. "My actions would not be necessary if you had assumed your throne when the time was upon you."

"Gramis would have killed me!" she shot back.

"I would have aided you! Bhujerba was strong then. We could have allied with Rozarria."

"And what then?" Her eyes had grown colder. Basch had neared her side by instinct, and she had made no effort to discourage him. "Archadia would win, and we'd be worse off," she insisted, "or Rozarria would win and use its new power to conquer us. There is no logic in allying with an empire."

"And you see logic in allying with an empire's playground?"

She shook her head. "Halim, we are past all this. Isn't it enough that I've come to you now? Bhujerba must stand with us."

Ondore released a sigh and stepped closer to her, then brushed some hair from her face. "My little Lady Ashe," he said. "When you were a girl, your only wish was to be carried in my arms. You are a woman grown now, and it seems your wishes have grown proportionately."

A glint of hope sparked in her eyes—a brief flash of blue over the impenetrable gray. "Then Bhujerba will aid me?" she asked.

He regarded her briefly before answering. "Suppose for a moment you were to defeat Gramis—what then? You would have Vayne to deal with, and he will not suffer the reigns of the Senate."

"He is at least fair-minded."

"He is a son of Solidor—a warrior, a renowned military genius." He folded his hands behind his back once more and began to pace. "And even should you defeat him, would that not level you with Archadia? Would it not provoke Rozarria to strike you down out of fear?"

"I don't wish for war. I want only my own lands back—I will not go on to conquer out of vengeance."

"Easy words to say, my dear, but a difficult promise to keep. Even should you mean it, you cannot simply rebuild your kingdom with the only proof of your birthright stolen. Without that, the Gran Kiltias on Bur-Omisace cannot and will not recognize you as the rightful heir. You may yet be a princess, but without proof of your identity, you are powerless. You will remain with me; we will continue to train for an air assault, and do nothing until the time is right."

"I cannot just wait," the princess insisted.

Ondore's face was calm. "Then what does Your Majesty propose we do?"

"Uncle Halim—"

"This is the only aid I can offer you, Ashe. My hands are bound as tightly as yours."


	20. Chapter XIX

_XIX._

Azelas had first been assigned to Ashelia's security when she had barely seen her sixth birthday—and immediately put a sword in her hands.

"It's my job," he had told the little princess. "I'm not truly protecting you unless I teach you to protect yourself."

And Ashe had taken to the blade like a snake to her native sands—graceful, fluid, a smoothness of motion that seemed light enough to pass for a dance. And she was often underestimated for it.

"Be careful, Ashe," the knight had warned her when Rasler—a year older—goaded her into a duel. "Don't start a war."

But after ten minutes of watching her catch and dodge the prince's blows without deigning to land one of her own, Azelas had dropped his forehead into his palm and added, with a groan: "Alright, kill him."

Rasler had been smart, though; after Ashe laid him out flat in the palace courtyard, he trailed after her wherever she went—lovesick little thing, though it had annoyed her at the time.

And Basch was his Azelas—she tried to remind herself of that, tried to believe this outlandish story and all the threads it laid bare. Azelas had been distrustful of Basch from the moment they met—the prince had taken him on quickly, raised him in rank based seemingly on friendship alone, and Azelas was as competitive as he was wary. And now, to tell the princess he deserved her trust—to leave her in his care, perhaps indefinitely?

The unexpected flutter of comfort at knowing that Basch would sleep in the room across the hall—where he had always slept when she and Rasler visited her uncle—she couldn't fathom it, worked to dissolve it, rebuff it. She reminded herself that Azelas was not in the room next door, and her sword and her caution were her only protection. The past two years had hardened her—she hadn't noticed it until now, standing at the foot of the fanciful bed that had always been hers in this house. A perfumed chamber: high windows, thick rugs, flowers and magicite chandeliers—and she had slept in catacombs and cargo holds since Dalmasca's fall. Where had Basch slept, she wondered?

He looked older—too thin, somehow worn, an unevenness to his gait that she had only noticed when bidding him goodnight. And it made sense—keep him alive, a resource in reserve; even a prisoner who couldn't be turned had value to weigh against his comrades. She looked down to her feet—silver sandals, five inch spikes for heels. That was Archadia: pragmatic to the extreme in all facets of the military, an all-consuming pride in the impractical where other matters were concerned. Gramis would keep him, no matter the length of time; a card to play when the deck didn't favor him.

And she remembered then a question that Basch had asked Balthier as they fled from the _Atomos_. The _Strahl_ —that was the name. The pirates' craft, the _Strahl_ , had been moved into the docking bay of the _Valefore_ —Ondore's own ship—to imply a successful escape when Ghis's soldiers searched the aerodome. And there was a small livery downstairs—combat boots ripe for the taking—and a ground-floor window in the scullery that was easy enough to climb through. A princess might resign herself to this bed, but a general would fight—would seek out proof of her lineage, and head off Ghis's plan before he could enact it.

She was on the street before she could even process her escape—she had sneaked out of Ondore's manse more than once in the past—and she continued across town to the aerodome without lending any thought to what she left behind. The guards posted on the _Valefore_ bought her lies easily, and the _Strahl_ 's entry hatch stood open and welcoming, but she struggled to deactivate the security lock on the controls. This far, and this would be the obstacle to hold her back? She guessed a code, and then another, and then mashed a few buttons at random. Nothing.

"What are you doing?"

Ashe looked up, but did not rise from the pilot's seat. Penelo stood behind her, eyes wide, mouth open.

The princess returned her scowl to the control panel. "I'm going to find the Midlight Shard. I'll return the ship later."

"Without Basch and Azelas?" the girl asked, and seemed to regret it immediately.

"I don't have time to wait for Azelas," she insisted. "This is something that I have to do."

"So you're gonna go off by yourself?"

"I'm the only one who knows where it's hidden. There's no point in bringing others into this."

Penelo stepped up beside her—leaned against the copilot's seat—and shook her head. "Don't you have any idea what the emperor will do when he finds out you're alive?"

"I will not be made to hide—I'll fight alone if I must."

"You still have Basch, right?"

"I'd rather not."

"And besides," Penelo went on, "you can't just go around stealing people's ships."

Ashe ceased her work at the controls and spun in the chair to face her. "Who are you to talk of stealing?"

"Hey, come on!" She tried to back away, but the chair behind her only swiveled, nearly knocking her off balance. "I just didn't want the Dusk Shard in the hands of the Archadians."

"And where is it now?"

The girl groaned. "I did it for Dalmasca, okay?"

"Well, I'm doing this for Dalmasca," Ashe flared, "so either help or get lost."

A third voice boomed throughout the ship then—blaring through the speakers mounted at intervals on the ceiling: "That's quite enough, Your Highness." Ashe and Penelo turned to the back of the cockpit, where Balthier stood holding the mobile receiver of the ship's communication link. Fran stood beside him, arms folded.

Ashelia studied them for a moment, and again turned back to the panel in front of her. "I'm just borrowing it."

"Like hell you are." Balthier stepped in and put the commlink back in his pocket. "Go borrow one of your uncle's ships."

"I tried. They're all locked."

"Tough luck. I'm leaving and you're staying."

She stood, faced him. "You can't!"

"Trust me," he said. "You're better off here."

"I'm useless here," she insisted.

"Sorry, Highness," he went on. "We have too much on our hands to continue holding yours."

Penelo stepped forward. "Well, Balthier…" she offered. "Suppose you kidnapped her instead?"

"No, thanks," he scoffed. "I just spent three weeks clearing my name."

"But you're a skypirate aren't you?" Ashe added. "Just steal me. Is that so much to ask?"

He smiled. "What do you have that I would want?"

"The Dynast King's treasure." She paused for a moment, having blurted it out with little thought, but upon seeing that both pirates—and even Penelo—had perked at the mention of such a thing, she went on with a stronger voice: "The Midlight Shard is in King Raithwall's tomb—along with all the tribute offered by the people at his funerary procession: gold, jewels, magicite. Collectors have been after it for ages."

"And you know where it is?" Balthier asked.

She nodded. "It's my birthright."

He glanced at Francesca for approval, then folded his arms and turned back to the princess. "You know, you don't seem like the type to sell off all of your forefather's wealth in exchange for a free ride and one little rock."

"That little rock will put me on the throne," she said. "Take me to it, and you can have everything else."

He smiled. "Alright, Princess, consider yourself stolen."

"Thank you."

And then yet another voice spoke up from the cockpit door: "Balthier, are you completely insane?"

"No," Balthier groaned, "just slightly."

Basch entered the ship, the glare he pointed at Balthier one more of amusement than anger. "Kidnapping is a serious offense," he said. "It won't do much to keep further bounties off your head."

"How much is the price on _your_ head these days, I wonder?" Balthier shot back.

"Captain," said the princess, "you know as well as I do that we are powerless without proof of my lineage."

"I do," he answered, "and I have no intention of interfering. But Azelas will have my head if anything should happen to you, so I'm afraid if you intend to go running off with pirates, I must insist that you allow me to escort you in his place."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Tell that to Ghis." She glowered at him, but he continued undaunted: "It's more than understandable that you can't trust me—why don't you let Penelo look after you?"

Penelo's eyes widened. "Huh?"

"You know she's in it for Dalmasca," said Basch.

Ashe looked the girl up and down, then said, calmly, "Alright."

"Hey," she injected, "don't I get any say in this?"

"Sounds like a good idea to me," said Balthier. "She's got friends in high places."

Penelo cast him a glare.

"Shall we leave then," asked Fran, "or is there something yet left to argue over?"


	21. Chapter XX

_XX._

"Well, this was a good idea."

Balthier stood at the front of the cockpit, a golden line tracing the edge of his features, that familiar gaze to the horizon even with a gargantuan sandstorm obstructing the open sky before him.

The princess rolled her eyes. "Just land," she said.

"Here?"

"It's not dangerous."

Basch—standing beside Ashelia—cocked his head at the funneling tower of sand and cloud outside. " _That's_ not dangerous?"

And Fran put a hand on her hip. "It's not real."

"What?" Penelo asked.

The wide expanse around them was barren—yellow, desolate, textured only by dunes and the occasional stirring wind. The Dalmascan Sandsea stretched for miles, devoid of watering holes, and it grew even larger in the winter months, when the tides in the south ran low, dropping off at the deep sea valley that marked the Rozarrian border. A mountain range ran along the eastern border, dividing the desert from Nabradia, but Ashelia had instructed the pirates to land at the Sandsea's exact center, where the storm kicked up searing wind and scorching sand.

"A Mist illusion," said Fran. "I did not know humans could work such things."

"Maybe they can't," Balthier replied. "Her Highness certainly seems to have that old-fashioned Viera spunk."

Ashe smirked. "I don't know how it works."

"We can't just fly into that thing," said Basch.

"Then let me out and I'll go in on foot," Ashe countered.

"Of course," said Balthier. "Wander off into a sandstorm and I'll never get paid."

The princess folded her arms. "How much would it cost me to buy your silence?"

"More than you can afford."

Fran stepped in: "I will go first."

There was a hush then—none of them quite seemed to believe her—and she explained as best she could:

"I can smell it from here."

"Smell it?" Ashe asked.

"Sense it. As humans can't do. Smell is the closest I can describe." _Breathe_ might be better, but humans understood things so differently, especially with different languages, with words that never quite matched up, approximations more than translations. "It is a powerful working, many hundreds of years old. Perhaps thousands."

Ashe nodded. "The story that has passed on in my family says it was set in place by the gods themselves."

Balthier huffed—a poorly restrained laugh.

And the princess regarded him over her shoulder. "Nonsense, I know. But the Dusk Shard was real, so it stands to reason that the Midlight Shard is, too. The rest can fall into legend for all I care."

Balthier took his seat and brought the _Strahl_ down from its hover. "Fair enough. But Fran checks it out fir—Oh."

"Oh?" Basch asked.

Balthier gestured. "Fran? Arm the rear lasers."

She did, Ashelia stepping up between them, a hand on the back of either chair. "What's happening?"

"An Atomos," said Balthier.

"Damn it," Basch replied.

"Still far off."

And Fran spoke up: "It's gone still. It's hailing us."

"Ghis wouldn't just send and Atomos," said Penelo.

"My thoughts exactly," Balthier added, and then looking to the princess: "Should we take it?"

Ashelia nodded. "Take it."

With the guns readied, Fran accepted the open line and matched the frequency. Balthier spoke in Archadian, rattling off the _Strahl_ 's most reliable transport code and identifying it as a merchant vessel, then adding: "We don't want any trouble."

The reply was in Dalmascan: "Got a better price for her, did you?"

The princess sighed, eyes falling shut for a moment; it was Azelas.

"Got a better price _from_ her, actually," Balthier answered, and Ashelia stepped in:

"I hired them, Azelas. I needed a ship."

"Honestly, Highness," he replied. "Can't I leave you alone for ten minutes?"

"Your replacement didn't complain," said the princess.

"I thought him above consorting with skypirates."

"It was the princess's decision," Basch defended. "I had little choice in the matter."

"I'm sorry we didn't wait for you, Azelas," said Ashelia, "but I could not stand to be useless."

Azelas sighed, bringing the Archadian craft nearer to the _Strahl_. "You couldn't have commandeered a ship from your uncle's fleet?" he asked. "You couldn't find your way back to this Atomos?"

"I have to put up with Basch," the princess contended, "so you're going to put up with my pirates."

Basch and Azelas both let out groans, and Fran and Balthier turned to Ashe and spoke in unison: " _Your_ pirates?"

Penelo laughed.

"We're stopping here," Ashe went on. "I'll meet you on the ground."

Azelas conceded, and Balthier docked the _Strahl_ , warning that they hadn't enough water to last more than two or three days in the weather. Penelo leaped out into the sand with an avian delicacy, while Fran tolerated the surroundings as best she could—bright, dry, desolate—and the others kept to the shade beneath the ship while the Atomos approached.

"How much longer do you think you will live?" Fran asked it in Vieran—the others weren't listening anyway. Any other human might find the query random, but Balthier understood: Viera were connected—blossoms on a single living vine—and could feel each other—breathe each other—sense the emotions behind each other's words before any words described them. He was used to it.

"Oh, I don't know…" he replied, also in Vieran. "I figure I've probably got another thirty years in me—maybe forty or fifty if I'm careful, but how likely is that?"

"But thirty at least?" she asked.

Now he looked at her, eyes transformed from burnished brass to thin honey in the light of the desert sands. "What are you getting at?"

"Promise me thirty."

"Weren't you going ahead?" He put a fist on his hip. "Preserving the princess's safety? Sniffing things out?"

Fran shifted her weight. "Bal."

And he smiled. "Thirty, I promise."

A smile, a nod, and Fran set out toward the storm on her own.

Perhaps she was not as keenly observant as other Viera—perhaps that was why she still could not see the value of these stones the humans chased and traded and coveted. Money, yes—she understood that—but to kill for them? To barter the lives of their own kind to secure rights to a mine? The Viera would sometimes exchange orchids or truffles or even jewelry for magicite, but they used it only to light dark spaces—green glowing mushrooms and the orange flash of fireflies lit the rest of the Wood.

 _Birthright_ , the princess had said; a stone that would prove her lineage. Family worked differently among humans—lines drawn and traced and cited as proof of virtue or vice, every bloodline distinct, the division of houses as paramount as their unification. Reddas had explained it to her once—or tried to—giving up two hours in and sending her to the Grand Library of Archades, where it was all recorded: the rise and fall of senators, desperate acts by noble souls, good humans turned to the blackest of sinners in pursuit of what seem to be, in the end, no more than the most fragile and transient of illusions.

She had passed through again some time later, finally an interest to pursue, finally a name to research: Bunansa. The usual stares as she paged through books, fingers long and deft, eyes hard, searching: histories and holdings and family trees, every marriage and child and murder, and Fran was amazed by it—such deep roots for such unforgiving soil.

"Gods save him from himself," Reddas had told her when she mentioned it. "The stupid boy thinks he can stop a war."

No. He had already tried to—the _Strahl_ lost to the skies before they could replicate it, all sketches and notes and blueprints stolen with it—and Fran wasn't sure what would happen now that he had failed. Foolish, prideful Viera—to think Balthier too silly for such sorrow.

She could hear him far behind her, talking with the others, Penelo's high voice easiest to pick out above the hum of the Mist, and his a close second, if only because she was attuned to it.

"You've got your brother's sense of humor," he was telling Basch with a groan.

Azelas had joined them—some commotion over another day's worth of water for the entire group.

"The marquis sympathizes with us," he was saying, "but the Empire has him under close watch. He can keep whispers of your 'abduction' silent for only so long, and the Empire plans to pass off one of their own in your place. The only way we will gain any ground is by proving to the people that you're the true queen."

"One step ahead of you," said Ashelia. "The Midlight Shard is in Raithwall's Tomb, and I have a healthier blood supply than Ghis."

"And the tomb is all the way out here?" Azelas asked.

"If it were easy, Archadia would have it by now." A ripping sound—abrupt, but soft—and Fran turned to look: the princess had torn off the last few inches of her dress's hem, shortening the skirt above her knees. "Well," Ashelia went on, "we must be quick. It's bad enough that I should be revealed so soon; who's to say what will happen if they reveal two of me?"

Fran looked up to the storm's funnel—whirling sand and dust, but no wind, the air calm, only the faintest desert breeze. She reached her arm out into the illusion, and the age of it—the length of its life—sang through her blood in a way only the jungles of Golmore could. Two thousand years old? Three? She closed her eyes, and stepped through.

The lives of thousands—hundreds of thousands—the energy of kingdoms lost and ruins trampled and new tales told in their wake. A working of this kind was not meant to last so long; the Mist was stale—withheld from its natural cycle for far too many generations—and taken in an unholy way that left it unclean, roiling, forlorn. She hadn't breathed this kind of Mist since she first neared the Necrohol, and the silence that enrobed her as she came out on the other side echoed back to how quiet the day after Rabanastre's surrender had seemed, sunny and peaceful, despite what she knew was happening elsewhere—a kingdom fallen, a captain supposedly put to the sword for treason and regicide: the loud, painful, furious history of humans.

The tomb stood on stone—no sand within the storm. Columns rose around it, sentinels standing in rows and rows, all at attention turned toward the towering fortress, as much a palace as a crypt. And a ring of triangular statues encircled the peaked roof—intricately armored with bright Dalmascan steel, standing on their points, faceless helms perched at the centers of their flattened tops like heads on broad shoulders.

But the ground beneath Fran's feet concealed catacombs—she could breathe them, smell them, feel the Mist churning within them. The tomb was not in the citadel, but beneath it. She turned, and passed back through the illusion.

Their voices returned to her ears the moment she emerged. The princess's almond-hued hair shimmered in the desert sun, paler somehow, her eyes glowing powder blue in the distance—she had led them nearer to the storm, and the group stood at her back, watching for Fran's emergence.

She waved them on, and Ashelia started forward.

"Still?" Azelas was asking Basch.

"I'm working on it," Basch replied.

If the princess had heard, she didn't respond.

Fran stepped into the storm once more, and worked to acclimate herself to the sensation—the Mist. When the others arrived, they stood enthralled by the grand stone temple. Ornate carvings adorned every surface of every block, two towering doors marking the entryway, both ornamented with gems and spiraling metalwork.

"Whoa…" said Penelo, feet spread wide on the stone, face turned up.

"It's bigger than I thought," Ashelia replied with a nod.

"I take it we'll have to be going in?" Azelas added.

"The Midlight Shard is deep inside," said the princess. "Supposedly well-guarded. It might take a day or two."

"You know the way?" Balthier asked.

She hesitated. "Well—no."

"No?" he pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"All I have are the stories handed down in my family," she went on. "They've been right so far."

"And you're basing the future of your entire country on this?"

"Balthier…" Penelo warned.

"Wait here," the princess growled. "I'll go unlock it."

"Uh, hey!" Penelo continued. "Shouldn't I go ahead?—As your babysitter? You know, make sure it's not dangerous?"

"Penelo," Ashe replied, tone low, "the first thing you have to learn about being a bodyguard is that the greatest danger you will ever face is _me_."

"Oh. Right then. Off you go."

The princess granted her a felinesque smirk—a calm bemusement that set a light in the girl's eyes—and ascended the steps leading up to the great stone doors.

Balthier folded his arms. "She's going to get us all killed."

"She's overconfident," Azelas defended, "but she won't make any hasty decisions."

Ashelia began prying loose the jewels that adorned the entryway and rearranging them. Fran had anticipated this, and watched closely.

"You know," Balthier went on, "that whole saving-your-asses-from-Ghis thing was a one-time deal."

"We can handle him," Penelo replied.

"Sure you can," he scoffed. "We were all damn lucky last time. He's smart and influential—and he's a certified hardass to boot. He'll chew you up and spit you out."

"You think the princess can't handle that?" asked Penelo.

"I think she can't admit that she can't," replied Balthier.

"Her Highness cannot abide weakness," Basch stepped in, "least of all in herself."

"Which is probably why she makes for such a great soldier," Azelas added. "At any rate, we're nothing without her."

Ashelia hung her head, one palm pressed against the doors where they met, though she did not push—instead she leaned, resigned. Fran stepped away from the group and started up the stairs, drawing to a halt a few feet from the princess.

"You need magicite?" she asked, and Ashe turned, meeting her eyes over her shoulder.

"Quite a bit of it," she answered, letting her arm drop to her side as she turned to face the Viera.

"May I try?" Fran asked.

Ashe studied her. "Is there something you can do?"

Francesca stepped forward and laid her fingers on the doors—a large depression at the center of each panel, twenty in total. It was lucky that so much Mist lingered beneath them.

"The man buried here," she said. "He waged many wars."

Ashelia nodded. "He did. He was the king who forged the Galtean Alliance—more than a thousand years of peace, after nearly a hundred years of bloodshed."

"A Dalmascan?" Fran asked. She could feel the Mist at her toes, and beckoned it upward, called it to her fingers.

"Not exactly. Dalmasca and Nabradia were a single empire in those days. Landis and Rozarria—" She hesitated. "Archadia, the mountains."

Fran directed the Mist into the magicite sockets. Diplomacy—politeness, not to assume she knew the proper name of the Vieran lands. Normally somewhat annoying to Fran, but the princess's earnestness softened it.

"They were all divided into a dozen warring city-states," Ashe went on, "and Raithwall united them. They called him the Dynast King."

The rippling rock gleamed wetly beneath Fran's feet, condensation rising upward, damp and chill even as the air burned with a false heat, the Mist an oppressive wall that made her eyes water. She charged it, forced it outward, into the stone, and it took a strangle hold within her for one blazing moment before evaporating like water on a hot coal. She stepped back, lashes fluttering, the briny force of life in her lungs, no two breaths the same.

"This is the story his ancestors passed down?" she asked, and the princess regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment.

"You don't believe it?"

And then the doors gave a shuddering creak—they scraped open, expelling clouds of dust from their edges that blew forward the torn hem of Ashelia's dress and the short fringe of her hair. Fran folded her ears back into her own hair, and shut her eyes against the gust.

"I do not doubt your word," she told the princess. "It is just that the only stories I have ever found to be true are the ones I wished were false."

Ashelia considered this, but an inquisitive shout from Penelo drew her attention. "Thank you for your help," she told Fran with a nod, and then summoned the others forth with a sharp whistle.


	22. Chapter XXI

Still working on a title. Any suggestions?

 _XXI._

The tomb's innards reeked of must and disuse, a moist, choking Mist clouding the air and dampening Ashelia's skin as she entered. Her knights stepped in at either side of her, Fran venturing calmly ahead, ears perked, chin up, while Penelo released a high-pitched squeak of a cough from the doorway. Ashe turned to her companions, noting the glance that Balthier cast Fran. The Viera answered him with a single long-lashed blink from over her shoulder before turning to the sprawling chamber before her. The walls bore towering carvings: people at war, two dozen different banners waving on the battlefield, while the gods—armored, eyes glowing through Mist—hovered in dismay among the clouds. They stood on a high balcony overlooking the tomb's foyer—too far to climb, yet tight walls restricted their movement to a square patch of stone the width of the double-doors that had admitted them.

"Now what?" Penelo asked.

Ashe studied the wall to their right, brushing dust from the inscription on a narrow door that stood there. A large metal keyhole gleamed beneath the handle. "We need the key," she said, and felt the weight of Basch's eyes on her as she turned and strode to the opposite wall.

"I don't suppose your father passed that along to you with his stories?" he asked.

"You're not helping yourself," she told him.

"He's got a point," said Balthier.

Ashelia located the stone specified in the inscription and pressed it inward. A second stone scraped out of the wall with a rumble and fell to the floor, dust settling around it. Rising to her toes, Ashe reached into the fresh hole and pulled out a large iron key.

"Nice," said Penelo.

The princess turned the key in the lock, but the door remained sealed. The wall behind her, however—the wall that had hidden the key—produced a dim aperture lit by magicite, stones sliding on stone, folding back, interlocking, rearranging.

"Well," said Azelas, "this may be a challenge yet."

Ashe smirked, but did not enter the chamber. She stooped and picked up the brick that had concealed the key, then tossed it through the entryway. A broad steel blade fell from the ceiling within the room, clanking against the floor and falling flat with a puff of dust. Ashe met Azelas's eyes for a moment, but decided against commenting.

The glow of magicite within the room did not come from polished stones, but rather from natural veins throughout the stones lining the walls. Another inscription instructed her to press a series of stones in order to reveal the next key—another brick dropped out of the wall, another alcove revealed—but this time the fallen stone itself bore a message: one word on each of its three concealed sides. The language of Dalmasca had changed little over the years, but the words were only approximations, and the etched letters bore an obscuringly thick layer of dust.

"Keep the keys," Ashelia read slowly.

Balthier cocked his head. "Handy."

Ashelia dropped the stone and stepped out of the chamber, again approaching the door across from it. She removed the first key and inserted the second, turning it a full rotation—and the ground shook, dust rumbling free of the walls, and the key sprang out of the lock, tinkling on the floor at her feet. Slowly, loudly, the platform beneath them lowered them down through the expansive chamber, shuddering to a halt at the top of a split staircase that ran along the wall and around both corners, uniting a level below on a stone walkway that extended into darkness. High metal spears glinted in the chasm beneath it, falling away beyond vision. Stretches of crumbling infrastructure loomed in the shadows, old aqueducts and toppled columns whose purpose had been lost to time, and Ashe stepped forward to gain a better view—mounted the stone railing to stand beside Francesca, who lingered silently, thin as a blade.

"I don't like this," said Azelas.

"It seems sturdy," Ashe replied.

And Balthier stepped up behind her, arms folded, eyes on the ceiling. "Sturdier than most I've looted—though I've had more than one collapse on me."

"You've collapsed more than one on yourself, you mean," Fran added.

Ashelia planted a hand on Azelas's shoulder to steady herself as she hopped down from the ledge. "We're going in."

She could hear Azelas bed down a sigh, but Basch and Penelo kept at her heels without complaint, and the pirates trailed along at the rear as she led them down one side of the grand staircase.

A strange turn, that the bodyguard she had once most trusted to encourage her rare penchant for adventure should now work alone to rein her in—should now fear for her safety in earnest. Rasler, too, had always turned to Basch when he planned to make mischief—trusted him to keep his mouth shut, to even on occasion cooperate—and that night at Nabudis—

Ashe tried to turn her mind from it, eyes on the stone steps that sank deeper into the shadows as she descended them. The air flickered with false reflections before her, the light pouring forth from the doorway above fading in the distance. Azelas and Basch had flanked her closely as she descended, white fog billowing at their feet and wafting up in midair, translucent until the light struck its surface at just the right angle—then opaque, impenetrable.

The stairs met their twin flight from the opposite wall at the center of the room, a long sandstone walkway stretching out from the landing. Penelo batted away the Mist and loped up to the edge of the walkway, leaning forward, peering over the edge.

"They're soldiers," she announced.

The sparkling spearheads—razors spiking up from the darkness beneath the stone bridge—she was right: a thousand clay soldiers stood at attention below, their spears up, their eyes forward.

Ashelia stepped to Penelo's side. "Guarding the Dynast King in death."

Balthier neared the opposite side of the walkway, leaning over faintly, the low light illuminating the vaguest hint of amusement in his expression. "Awful lot of trouble for a box of dust and bones," he said. "You weren't kidding about that treasure, were you?"

Ashe smirked. "They say he took everything he most valued with him. Makes sense he would want to protect it."

"Lot of good a bunch of well-armed pottery will do him."

A crack echoed through the great hall then—every orderly spear lurching forward in unison. Basch and Azelas reached for their swords. The clay soldiers turned to face the bridge, the blunt ends of their spears striking the ground with a resounding _snap_ , and Fran drew her blade.

"We can't take them," she reported.

"What are they?" Penelo asked.

The Mist rolled off the walkway and into the pits, twisting and swirling and vanishing among the troops, and Ashe drew her sword as well.

"Come on!" Fran insisted, heading toward the doorway at the end of the bridge.

The first row of clay soldiers vaulted the walkway, spears swinging, and Basch and Azelas cut them down—a hail of dust and terracotta shards trampled beneath their feet as the second row took to the bridge. Penelo thrust her blade through a soldier and watched it crumble, and Ashelia felled three more in a single swing; their number, it seemed, was their only strength. Balthier and Fran had cut a path through the onslaught that the others followed at a gallop, closing ranks and turning their blades outward to fend off the intruding spears as they dashed toward the double doors at the far end of the walkway.

The doors were not locked—a trap, Ashelia thought an instant too late. They tore through the doorway and slammed the doors shut at their backs, both knights throwing themselves against the planks to hold them closed, though the army beyond yielded, silent, not a scrape against the doors once they were shut. Blackness engulfed them—the chamber was narrow and windowless, sloped downward and filled with Mist.

Before any could speak, a pair of torches flared to light on either side of the doors, a long row of them igniting in succession down the passageway.

"What now?" Penelo groaned.

And Balthier looked to Fran. "Mist?"

She nodded. "The humans worked it differently. I'm not sure I can undo it."

The flames of the torches roared, raging high and leaping from their posts, bounding and blazing into a single flame at the center of the corridor that reared up and flickered into the form of a stallion. Fran sheathed her blade and made a sweeping gesture with both arms, casting the Mist away from the horse's fiery feet and leaving glittering glyphs in its wake, but the creature only stamped its hooves and whinnied—the glyphs fading, the Mist falling in, a few flashes of weak magic splashing against the close stone walls before fading like sparks thrown from a fire. The steed reared, and charged.

Ashe had expected the sentinels—knew what to do, but had expected a statue, stationary and dust veiled; there was a difference between illusion and sorcery. She darted forward between her comrades, running her palm over the edge of her blade and squeezing her fingers around the fresh wound, leaching the blood out, pooling it in her palm—and then she flung her arm toward the oncoming monster, blood flying from her hand, each drop that struck the flames hissing, steaming, bursting into a shaft of silver light that sliced into the stallion and split it apart. The fires rolled and flared, and then puffed into smoke, collapsed to the floor, and crawled—wafted—up to the sconces where the torches sat. And slowly, the flames grew in their seats and flickered there tamely, illuminating the tunnel in silence.

"What in any god's name was that?" Azelas asked at length.

"A guardian," Ashelia stammered. "I thought it would be—stone. Like the Dusk Shard. I thought—" She stopped herself. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter."

"Yeah," Penelo scoffed. "Giant flaming horse—no big deal."

Azelas had taken the princess's wounded hand and was wrapping it with the strip of silk she tore from her gown earlier.

"It's gone now," Ashe growled. "We've proven our right to be here. There shouldn't be any more trouble."

"I should hope so," Balthier stepped in. "Your Highness is running out of hands."

She cast him a look, the golden flecks in his eyes as alight in the flame of torches as they were in the glare of the sun, and something in him seemed distinctly Dalmascan to her—just for a moment—but the now twin bandages on her hands left her without response.

"You've seen this before?" she asked.

He glanced toward the corridor where the creature had taken form. "That? No. But similar things—smaller things."

"The Mist," Francesca explained. "The planet makes stones of it, but there are more efficient uses. It seems Your Highness's ancestors were quite skilled."

The Mist again gathered at their feet—loose clouds, easily dissipated with a kick; it grew silvery in places—a mirror of sorts—and reflected their images all around them, some reversed, upside down, some opaque, some distorted. It thickened at the sash of Penelo's dress, swirling slowly around her waist, a constant flow with no distinct destination. The girl swatted at it once, then twice, then took the dark stone that had saved them on the _Leviathan_ from her pocket. A faint green glow pulsed from its depths, and the Mist followed it as she swished it about, a faint smile playing at her lips.

"And that?" Ashelia asked.

Penelo paused, Fran regarding the stone without expression.

"That," Fran answered, "I cannot say."

"It's synthetic," Penelo explained.

"It's unnatural," Balthier replied.

"It saved our lives on the _Leviathan_ ," said Basch. "I'm not about to question it."

Azelas shifted his weight, studying the stone with a grim curiosity. "I've only ever seen magicite release energy," he said. "Did you know it could absorb it?"

"Sort of," Penelo answered. "It's not magicite. Larsa said it's sort of—faster."

She continued to explain, but her voice grew distant to the princess, softer and smoother and rolling onward into a continuous tone, devoid of words. She gazed into the stone's depths, noted the rich emerald that glowed there, the scorch mark marring the surface.

She wondered what the marquis would do—what the emperor would do—now that she was alive, now that Basch was free. And this talk of an air strike, planned since Nabudis, her father onboard, yet never a word of it to her. Ondore's power, his influence—the king may have felt there was some security there, and learned too late that Halim never took a hit he could leave for another. Whatever plan Azelas would seek out for Ashelia's future, Ashe would not see it carried out under her uncle's protection.

Rozarria to the south, Archadia to the north, vast and war-hungry troops massing in the depths of both, on the ground, in the sea, in the sky, all intent on grinding Dalmasca to dust, picking it clean of each inch of beauty, anything that shone. And she was alive—a victory, surely—and couldn't even prove it, at least not any more than Ghis's vial of blood could. Was it her country's destiny to meet its end between two titans, splintered to pieces as they locked swords and battled to the finish?

"Ashe?"

Her eyes darted up to Azelas.

"Right," she replied, dazed, numb, willing her feet to move. "Let's go."

They all stared after her as she walked down the corridor, none following until Azelas pursued her. She had missed out on the better half of their conversation, but recalled now—distantly, through a fog—that Azelas had attempted to rouse her with two other titles before resorting to "Ashe."


	23. Chapter XXII

_XXII._

The unfamiliar clanking of armor echoed throughout Rabanastre's royal halls, a resounding anathema to the quiet desert culture they had witnessed since their construction. Bergan's heavy footsteps silenced Drace's, while Judge Zargabaath strolled along between them with his eyes on the sandstone before him; both had hoped Bergan would return to Vayne's side and allow them to resume their usual duties, but no such luck: Bergan had returned from Nalbina empty-handed and from Balfonheim with barely a lead, and was due to pursue the Eighth Fleet into the Sandsea come morning to continue his search.

He was well matched to Vayne—he had once overseen the Third Fleet, but earned it little recognition in the war and thus turned to his skills in politics to keep him afloat in the upper levels of Archadian society. Under Vayne's command, he supervised all manner of illicit activity—at the prince's side at Nalbina, and at Nabudis before that, and who-knew-where in between. Imposing as Drace was, all Judges preferred her over Bergan—they preferred anyone over Bergan.

"The Senate may play at intrigue," he insisted, "but Lord Vayne is not one to be brought down easily. The entire military waits upon his orders, from the war council down to the rank and file."

Drace withheld a laugh. "Your Honor reminds me of Zecht. He, too, put his trust in Lord Vayne's strength, and look what became of him."

"I will not hear you malign Judge Zecht," Bergan snapped, rolling his eyes beneath the protection of his helm. "And trust in Lord Vayne is never ill-placed."

"Vayne took his own brothers' lives," said Drace. "He is ruthless beyond contempt."

And now Bergan laughed. "You say that as though it ought to be held against him! He gives traitors no quarter, even if they bear his own blood. That brand of ruthlessness is more than fitting for one who would bear the burden of an empire."

"But could we bear him?" Drace replied, an oddly misplaced ring accompanying her sarcasm. "Zargabaath? Surely you don't believe his brothers were traitors."

"So found Lord Gramis," Zargabaath said dryly. "You would do well to mind your tongue, Drace—that matter is long passed."

Telling Drace to mind her tongue was like telling Larsa to stay put. She lived for a good debate and seemed to spark controversy for the fun of it—a habit dreaded by all but the ever-reserved Gabranth, who found it admirable to say the least, and entertaining to say slightly more.

"Honestly," said Bergan, "you'll believe anything if it poses a threat to Larsa."

"It's my job, after all," she conceded. "He would have been killed long ago if his lord father let him run free."

"Now there's the truth," Bergan scoffed. "His Excellency has lost all sense of discipline. That damned girl softened him."

"So defamation of Judge Zecht is unacceptable," Drace mused, "but Judge Ferrinas' daughter is fair game?"

"Lineage is not always as reliable as it ought to be," he growled back. "A proper empress would have ruled at her husband's side, not scolded him into political stagnation. Had she an ounce of her father's gall, Rozarria would be ours by now."

"However can you live with such anger?" Drace asked.

"Settle down, you two," Zargabaath groaned. "This bickering will lead you nowhere."

"Who are you to say so?" Bergan replied. "Don't act as though you didn't notice the emperor's weakness after he met her."

"Why must I always be in the middle of these things?" Zargabaath sighed.

And Drace added: "He's not going to let it rest until he hears what he wants to hear."

"If you must know," said Zargabaath, "I think it was Lord Larsa who led the emperor to his present state, and I commend him for it. I like to think of myself as a patriot, but I've seen this war's toll taken before my own eyes, and in my opinion the cost has far exceeded the worth."

"And yet if Rozarria is not properly handled," Bergan answered, "it will have all been for nothing. We stand on the brink of world domination. If Lord Gramis would but lead us one more step forward…" He shook his head. "But I suppose it's useless. We must wait for Lord Vayne to take the throne; he will see this war finished."

"Now on that we can agree," said Drace. "For better or worse."

"But who is to say that Lord Vayne will not bend to his brother's influence?" Zargabaath asked, allowing Bergan a nod of acknowledgement. "Even you become a different man in his presence."

"I certainly wish no ill on the prince," Bergan replied, "but he is as weak as he is sweet; Lord Vayne will recognize this."

"Let us hope."

Drace rolled her eyes, though her helmet masked the gesture. "Need I remind Your Honors that Larsa could very well be listening in?"

"Come now, Drace," Zargabaath went on. "He's just a boy; he's got better things to do."

The crack of an opening door echoed through the hall, and the boy in question rounded a corner up ahead, sliding on the gleaming stone floor before regaining his feet and dashing across the hall ahead of them with a laugh. The game was clear, for he wore Gabranth's Judiciary helm. His footsteps faded and were soon cut off abruptly by the slamming of another door, and before long Gabranth came clanking around the corner as well. He gave his fellow Judges an exasperated look of inquisition, and they pointed him in Larsa's direction.

"Pathetic," Bergan grumbled.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" Drace mused.

He shook his head. "You and Gabranth have been too busy playing mommy and daddy to properly serve Archadia in the war. It's been too long since either of you saw any real action."

"You forget that Gabranth's service is what ultimately landed us Dalmasca," said Zargabaath.

"Two years ago," Bergan added.

Naturally, it had long been suspected that something more was going on between Drace and Gabranth, or had gone on, or was bound to go on someday. In the absence of proof or reason—Drace was ten years older and born of a high house—it proved difficult to study their interaction, since they allowed themselves so little of it: they only seemed to keep each other's company when in Larsa's presence.

And indeed, Larsa was the binding force between them: Drace had scarcely even acknowledged Gabranth's ordination into the Judiciary—controversy that it was—until Larsa took a liking to him. When the prince began to walk—or rather, when he began to disappear—Drace and Gramis had agreed that a second set of eyes on the boy would do him good, and Drace herself suggested the Landisian, citing Larsa's own request. And there he had stayed for eight years, even after he abandoned his country for its conqueror, even after he betrayed his own brother.

"He's useless now," Bergan went on. "We don't need some dog from Landis to help our hunt—the prey is already ours."

Drace nodded slightly and repeated Gabranth's words to her many years ago: "It's a shame they do not know when they are conquered."

"Can't say I ever expected as much from you," said Zargabaath.

"Why not say so to the emperor," Bergan pushed. "A word from you, and he'll be back on the front lines."

"And I'll be left to wrangle Larsa up on my own everyday," she replied. "He's not useless in his element."

"And when Larsa's older?" Bergan asked. "What then? He won't always need babysitters."

"That depends on what's to become of him."

Bergan laughed. "What does it matter? He'll be either a plaything of the Senate or a son-in-law of Emperor Margrace."

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed. "Those mud-witted Senators don't stand a chance. The fools think a child emperor's strings easy to pull from the shadows, but they will find that Larsa is no puppet."

"So you would flatter him," said Bergan. "The boy takes after his mother—he hasn't a violent bone is his body."

"You've never fenced with him," Zargabaath muttered.

"What do you think he would do?" Drace asked. "Certainly not as he's told, I hope."

"He's an escape artist," said Bergan. "He'd bow to any demand they should make of him, so long as they promise it will end in peace."

"Nonsense," she replied. "He's as clever as he is resourceful. If anything, he would be the one making demands of them."

"Either way," Bergan insisted, "he will cow at the prospect of bringing about this war's end."

"And either way," Zargabaath added, "he will not get it."

"Oh, really?" said Drace.

Zargabaath nodded. "I believe the Senate would at first be most pleased to be handed a docile lamb for their own shepherding, but when they realize the truth, they will bare their teeth and attempt to devour him." Drace and Bergan both paused at this, their footfalls faltering and slowing, but Zargabaath continued steadily, his eyes trained forward beneath his helm: "And he will see it coming, of course. Lord Larsa is indeed an escape artist—he will go over their heads and assume complete authority without hesitation. He will be a true dictator."


	24. Chapter XXIII

_XXIII._

"Princess?"

Ashelia huddled in the distance, barely lit by the torch around which the others had gathered for the night. She turned to face Penelo over her shoulder.

"Penelo. Can't sleep?"

"No," Penelo replied, stepping away from her sleeping companions and sitting beside the princess. The tedium of solving puzzles to work their way through the many doors that impeded their path through Raithwall's tomb had left Penelo as exhausted as any of the others, but every creak and moan of the ancient palace had roused her with a start. She had grown weary of trying, and wondered, vaguely, how it was even possible to be too tired to sleep. "You either?" she asked.

Ashe regarded her briefly, shifting her feet up one step on the staircase where she sat, but then turned her eyes back to the darkness beyond the corridor ahead. "No. Do you hear it, too?"

Penelo spoke slowly: "Hear what?"

Ashe exhaled. "It must just be an echo of something."

"Bats?" she suggested.

"Perhaps."

A shrug. "Or rats. Who knows what's crawling around this place."

"Have we—" The princess turned to look at her for a moment, but then shook her head. "Forgive me. You look very familiar."

And Penelo turned her eyes to her feet, the heels of her palms gripping the step. "Oh. You probably met my brother."

"Your brother?"

"His name was Reks. He was, uh…"

"Oh, gods," Ashe replied. "The boy from Nalbina."

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you."

Ashelia shifted, arms wrapped around her knees. Her tone faltered. "He brought my father justice."

"Yeah," said Penelo. "I'm not so sure about that."

The princess hung her head. "Basch?"

"Reks saw what he saw," Penelo answered. "I'm not saying he was a liar."

"No."

"But all that the Empire's gone through to get us where we are—and Larsa knows Gabranth; all the pieces are there."

Ashe admitted her a nod, but said nothing, her eyes fixed on the darkness.

"I think Basch is innocent," Penelo went on. "And really, I hate to say that."

The princess huffed, resting her chin on her knees. "I want to say that. There's just too much to consider."

"I know. Still seems weird that he'd stick with Landis and his brother would go with Archadia."

Ashelia turned her head away. "Basch lost more than his brother did."

Penelo looked at her, and she continued:

"He was married, before the war. He doesn't talk about her."

"I had no idea," said Penelo.

"I heard she was pregnant…"

"Second thoughts?"

The princess leaned back, stretched her legs out long on the staircase before her. "What happened to him has nothing to do with what happened to my father. If he did it, I'm not granting him any excuses."

Penelo nodded. " _If_."

And then she raised her head abruptly, gray eyes staring down the blackened hallway, quick, hot, needling through the shadows in a futile search. "You really don't hear that?" she asked.

Penelo shook her head. "No. Sorry."

The princess's eyes dulled—lost focus—and her mouth softened into a respite that carried over to the next morning, no word mentioned of noises or distractions throughout the full day of solving puzzles and ignoring Balthier's remarks that followed. Still, Penelo watched her—studied her, sought through her and within her: Dalmasca's last chance—Dalmasca's hidden hope. She tried not to temper it with reminders that Archadia had its own secret prince to match her.

The tomb's corridors passed slowly as the day dragged on, occasionally opening up to high-walled chambers with arched ceilings and elaborate mosaics unraveling the many legends of Raithwall's ascension. Bits of magicite lit the winding tunnels, lending a subtle glow to the shapes and motions of the Mist, which seemed, every so often, to adopt a lifelike range of flexion, trailing after the group like fingers, and embracing them like smoke.

When they at last met a pair of doors at the end of a lichen-spotted passageway, Ashelia brushed away the layer of grime obscuring the inscription and said, with a heave of breath, "This should be it."

"Finally," Penelo sighed.

The doors were ornate, hewn of stone, elaborately carved, with a thick metal grating all around their edges and down the seam between them. The engravings displayed Raithwall's daughters—crowned, radiant—the older of the two on the left, holding the desert lilies of Dalmasca—a wasteland, but awash with gemstone mines—the younger engraved on the right, with the pine sprigs of Nabradia—rocky forested terrain, filled with precious ore for metal crafting. Mold slicked over much of the surface, but the steel showed no signs of rust. The princess ran her fingers along the runes etched into the panels, but stopped when Fran released a small gasp. The others turned to her as well, and she smoothed a hand over her forehead, through her hair.

"Too much for you?" Balthier asked.

The Viera shook her head. "Not yet, but it thickens."

"What's wrong?" Ashe stepped in.

"Mist gathers here," Fran explained. "It runs deep in this place."

"We can't feel it," Balthier explained, "but Viera are particularly sensitive to it. Nothing to worry about, though—Fran knows her limit."

"Is it dangerous?" the princess continued.

"Not the trusting type, are you?"

She gave him a sidelong glare, and Fran spoke before he could worsen the situation. "It can be very dangerous is these amounts, but it is also an aid. A dense Mist allows the working of powerful things."

"That doesn't sound good," said Basch.

Fran smirked. "At such concentrations, this magicite should be a sight to behold."

"Let us hope," said Ashe.

"Two locks," Azelas noted—indeed, two large stone locks loomed before them, one at the center of each door.

"Two keys," Ashelia replied, and held up the first two keys they had acquired upon entering the tomb—long, skeletal, gleaming. She inserted them into the locks and twisted them away from each other in unison, and a heavy scraping sound rumbled through the tunnel, dust shaking loose from the walls, the ceiling, Mist swirling and snaking through the doors as they split. The granite gears that locked the entrance turned back in complex succession, and the two halves parted, sliding outward on stone wheels, thundering to a stop before the locks met the walls on either side.

Ashelia removed the keys and led the others into the room beyond, and the stone slab beneath their feet depressed a few inches under the burden of their weight, triggering the doors to slam shut behind them. They all turned, staring as the dust settled.

"There's another way out of here, right?" Penelo asked at length.

"We've got the keys," Ashe answered. "I'm sure we'll manage."

"Forgive me for saying so, Princess," Balthier stepped in, "but it's awfully—empty."

She turned back to the high-ceilinged chamber—broad, musty, dim. Balthier and Fran were scanning the vast expanse, the mural engraved upon the towering walls, the tall pyramid of stairs in the center. At its peak sat a stone coffin, behind which stood a pedestal which held aloft a plain, fist-sized stone. The room was otherwise empty.

"He was the Dynast King," Ashe replied. "He had everything could ever want."

"So where is it?" Balthier quipped.

She approached the great staircase, looking to its height with wonder. "His first daughter settled in the east," she explained, "his second daughter settled in the west, and here in his tomb he kept the proof that he was their father. That's all he wanted."

Balthier crossed his arms and glowered at her. "You're saying _this_ is Raithwall's treasure?"

"Yes."

"We had a deal, Highness."

"Our deal was that I would take the Midlight Shard and you would take everything else."

And now he paused, studying her, and Penelo thought she saw something vaguely optimistic in his eyes—amused, then impressed, then almost proud. "Then I suppose you have some other plan for getting home?" he asked.

The princess paused at the top of the pyramid, Basch and Azelas half-way up behind her, Penelo hopping up two steps at a time and lingering just shy of the top. Ashe looked down on the pirates, expression serene as her bodyguards silently laid hands on the hilts of their swords.

"I admit I didn't think that far ahead," she told Balthier, "but a solution seems to have presented itself."

He put a hand on his hip, smiling. "Handled like a true monarch."

The princess turned away from him, edging her way around the coffin that held her ancestral remains and nearing the pedestal, while Penelo halted one step from the pyramid's peak and leaned in to study the ornate carvings that covered the sarcophagus on all sides. The large image that adorned the top panel depicted the king in the height of his power, standing before his bowing people with a sword in one hand and a glowing gem in the other. His daughters flanked him, each holding a stone of their own.

"What does it say?" she asked.

The princess faltered—jerked slightly—forcing her eyes from the stone to the girl.

"It's not Dalmascan," Penelo clarified. "I mean, it sort of is—some of it."

"It's ancient," said Ashe. "Dalmascan and Nabradian split off from it. I had to learn it when I was small." She tilted her head, hair falling in her face as she looked over the inscription. "Bringer of unity…guardian of harmony…"

Penelo wanted to stop her—to make her read it outright—but didn't dare issue demands.

"Most beloved servant of the ancient gods…deserving of their favor and trusted with their peace-giving powers. The usual."

She turned her eyes from the coffin to the pillar bearing the Midlight Shard—black, it seemed, though the Dusk shard had seemed so as well. She picked it up, brushing the thick film of dust from its surface, and it seemed to Penelo that the stone revealed a deep blue within its core, but the color undulated and faded, and she wondered whether she had seen it at all.

"Ashe!"

The princess turned—the call had come from Azelas—and Penelo followed his gaze in time for the Mist rising up the steps to engulf him, to crash upon Ashelia as waves upon a rock. Distantly, she thought she heard the others calling—Ashe's name, and then hers, and then Reks's, though the voices seemed imaginary the moment they ceased, devoid of substance, without direction, echoing in her head while the tomb loomed in silence. She turned, and felt the stone step beneath her feet. The Mist showed her nothing but her own reflection—opaque, shining, and then stretched and pulled apart and reassembled behind her, above her, flashing side-to-side.

And then the princess gasped—a sound that pierced the fog—and a shudder echoed through the chamber: Ashe had lost her balance—fallen against the sarcophagus, disrupting the thick veil of dust that blanketed it, and at once the Mist dissipated, evaporated into the air around them. The others stood on the steps below, calling to the princess, gaining their bearings and rushing up the pyramid. Penelo raised her head and vaulted the last step to the highest platform, and reached out for Ashelia, but hesitated to touch her.

"Princess?"

"I'm alright." She leaned away, the coffin between them, one hand still pressed to its lid as she leaned.

Basch and Azelas arrived with swords drawn.

"What was that?" Basch asked.

And Azelas added, "It came out of nowhere."

But the princess did not answer them, instead casting her gaze downward, to the pirates on the floor of the chamber below. "Fran?"

The Viera had fallen to her hands and knees, Balthier kneeling at her side. "Mist," he told them.

Francesca shook her head. "More than Mist. Something summoned it."

"Summoned it?" Ashe asked.

Faintly, slowly, Penelo's heartbeat fell out of sink—doubled. Not her heart, she thought; something else thumped against her ribs—a pulsating heat near enough to seem as though it dwelled within her. She slid her fingers beneath the silky sash of her gown, and pulled out Larsa's nethicite. "Is yours warm, too?" she asked the princess.

Ashe looked to her hand. The Midlight Shard flushed a darksome indigo.

Balthier helped Fran up. She laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned. "Nethicite?" he asked.

Ashe raised the stone and studied it, and her mouth opened faintly, but she said nothing.

And then he added, "Not even gods are that cruel."

Penelo turned her gaze away from her little shard and focused briefly on the princess's free hand, pressed against the cover of Raithwall's coffin, fingers curled under. A faint carving loomed behind the inscriptions on the stone—a more subtle addition to the deep-cloven details of the imagery, previously obscured by the dust. Shadowy eyes hovered behind the royals, deft figures masked by the hatched lines engraved into the background.

"Gods," Penelo said, and it barely rose above a whisper.

Basch and Azelas had sheathed their blades and leaned in to look, the princess extending her fingers deftly to trace the swirling lines that obscured the eyes.

"Gods," she repeated.

Balthier spoke again from down below, his arm around Fran's waist. "Let me guess: Nabradia had one, too, right? Kept it at Nabudis?"

Ashe drew her hand away from the sarcophagus and let it rest at her side. "The Dawn Shard."

Fran looked at Balthier. "We gave one to Ghis."

He nodded, eyes focused on Ashe. "And another to the princess."

Ashelia started down the steps toward them. "What are you saying? These stones had something to do with Nabudis?"

Balthier's expression was hard. "One stone, by the sound of it. You'd do well to leave it where you found it."

"When the Emperor has one of his own?"

A resounding scrape echoed through the chamber—triggered, apparently, by the princess's descent from the pyramid. A series of stones jutted out from the far wall of the room one after another, sand and silt bursting into the air, a staircase forming from floor to ceiling, where a panel receded slowly. A shaft of yellow light struck the coffin.

"Perhaps we should leave it," said Azelas.

Ashelia spun to face him. "This is the only proof of my identity I have left."

"You have followers," Azelas countered. "Ladies and lords and guards and servants—people who will recognize you."

"If this is what took down Nabudis," the princess replied, gripping the stone and raising it, "I will not leave it here for the Empire to find." She started up the newly-revealed staircase. "We'll return to Rabanastre for now and regroup."

The others followed her, but Basch hesitated. "Princess—"

"Do you really think you're in any position to question me, Captain?"

He recoiled, and Penelo saw a pang cross his face—not even in Nalbina's dungeon had she seen him so vulnerable. Azelas cast him a look—agreement, rooted deep—and Penelo met eyes with them both before bounding up the steps behind her princess. Fran had stabilized and followed at the rear, Balthier close behind her, low-browed, unreadable.

"Um, Your Highness," Penelo called out as Ashelia vanished through the aperture at the chamber's ceiling. "I know this stuff is important, but maybe when we get back we should—"

She stopped the moment her head breached the surface, mouth hung open and still. Ashe stood in the sand above—they had traveled past the storm illusion and into the barren sands while underground—and above her, gleaming against the afternoon sun, loomed the hulking _Leviathan_ , surrounded by the whole of the Eighth Fleet.


	25. Chapter XXIV

_XXIV._

The labyrinthine hallways of the _Leviathan_ wound around them, seeming to slither past by their own will. Ghis's crew extended a hover field around the _Strahl_ while soldiers cuffed the princess and her retinue in irons, lifting it into the _Leviathan's_ docking bay. Fran looked to Balthier, who stared ahead as the last flashes of sunlight glinted off his ship, pretending he didn't care as much as Fran was sure he did. It had seemed to her then that the _Leviathan_ embodied Archadia's military coldness, its massive magicite engines humming and its high steel frame gleaming, and the thought of these people—these Judges, Imperials—possessing two of the Mist-glutted stones struck in her the first chords of regret she had felt since leaving the Wood.

Fear—the desire to hide, to withdraw, to ignore the violent squabbles of humans as the Viera had always done. The very law she had forsaken—the very practice she had condemned—the craving for it festered within her for just that moment, a childlike longing to immerse herself in the whispers of the Green Word that breathed even now beneath her skin. And she recalled the clout of the Mist that swept into Raithwall's final resting place, the buzz it sent reverberating through her blood; fear was a motivator, a reinforcement to her resolve.

Ghis stood tall on the _Leviathan's_ bridge, his crew calm at their stations, and Fran could almost taste his satisfaction as the group followed their escorts into the room.

"Well now…" he growled in Dalmascan, cocking his head downward to give Penelo a foreboding steel glare as she entered behind the rest of the prisoners. "I knew you were trouble."

The girl stared at her irons, chest sunken and eyes dim.

"Leave her alone," Ashe snapped.

"Ah," said Ghis, almost sighing, "it is a tremendous honor to again be graced with your presence, Highness. You left us with such great dispatch upon our last encounter that I must confess I had begun to worry that we may have given Your Highness some cause for offense."

"Such a heartfelt display of remorse," she sneered. "Now what is it that you want?"

"I want you to give me the nethicite."

"The nethicite?"

Penelo pressed her arm against the little stone tucked away in her sash, shaking her head. "No!"

"Do not flatter His Little Lordship so," Ghis droned. "That is a base imitation. We seek Raithwall's legacy—the ancient relics of the Dynast King: deifacted nethicite." And he laid his gaze gravely on Azelas. "Did you not tell them, Captain Vossler?"

"Highness," Azelas said softly, "he speaks of the Midlight Shard—that is the nethicite."

"You…" The princess jerked away from him, leveling a glare that caused him to step back as well. "You're working for them?"

"No!" he defended. "Not _for_ them— _with_ them. For the greater good."

Basch stepped to the princess's side. "Are you mad, Azelas?"

"There is nothing to be gained from fighting the Empire," Azelas replied. "If we are to save Dalmasca, we must accept the truth."

"The captain has struck a wise bargain," Ghis added. "In return for the Midlight Shard, the Empire will permit Lady Ashelia to reclaim her throne, and the Kingdom of Dalmasca will be restored."

Ashe grit her teeth. "Dalmasca would be _restored_ in the same way that Bhujerba remains _sovereign_."

"Princess…" Azelas intervened.

"Shut it, Azelas!" she snapped. "Haven't you said enough already?"

"Honestly," Ghis replied, "such a harsh tone is unbecoming of royalty. Given that the Dusk Shard vanished from my possession along with Your Highness over Bhujerba, you should count yourself lucky that I ask only one stone of you."

"We don't have the Dusk Shard!" Ashe insisted, shaking her head.

"You've already proven yourself a liar," Ghis shot back. "There's no need to further your efforts. Just think on it. An entire kingdom for a stone; you must admit it's more than a fair exchange."

Balthier glowered at him. "And when all is said and done, your master will have another pet."

"You're one to talk," Ghis scoffed. "Fetching rocks for the highest bidder."

"You're just a bitter old man, aren't you?" Balthier bit back. "You'd sooner kill Gramis than do any more tricks for him. Do you even know what nethicite is capable of? What Cid is capable of?"

Ghis considered this a moment, holding steel-shielded eye-contact with the pirate for a few seconds before turning back to Ashe. "Lady Ashelia," he said, "let us take this poor wretch for the people of Dalmasca. Your Highness wallows in indecision on peril of their heads…" He drew his sword and swiftly set it at Balthier's throat. "And his shall be the first to fall."

The pirate didn't flinch. "Well, at least your sword is to the point."

Ashe fell silent, her countenance drained of all readable emotion, and Fran thought for the barest moment that she felt a pulse of Mist—a flutter from the Midlight Shard in Ashelia's hands. The princess's eyes met Balthier's fleetingly, and she held out the nethicite, her face blank, dazed. Ghis took the stone and lowered the sword.

"Princess!" Balthier growled.

"Shut up!" she lashed back.

Ghis stared at the nethicite, a vague shadow seeming to overcome his helm as he turned his face down to study it more closely. "Captain Vossler," he said, not bothering to look away from the treasure, "take them to the _Shiva_. They should have leave to return to Rabanastre soon."

Azelas led the group back into the winding halls of the _Leviathan_ ,withholding a heavy sigh and accompanied by a small troop of Archadian soldiers. Ghis handed the stone to an engineer as they left, and Fran turned her ears to listen in:

"I want you to assess its power."

"Forgive me, sir," the man replied, "but did our orders not specify that we were to return the stone for testing?"

"I will not chance returning with a stone that is yet unproven."

The voices echoed a bit as her distance from them grew, but the metal passageways honed the words to a sharpness that ultimately clarified them. There was some concern over the _Leviathan's_ equipment—a second engineer opted to use the ship's drive to make their assessment. Once they connected the stone, it flared to sudden life, and the reaction was easily measured: the rates of energy detected surpassed the rates found in all of the magicite utilized by the fleet as a whole—and as Fran followed her companions into an elevator, the count still climbed.

The voices muffled as the doors closed, the lift dropping them downward, far from the command bridge.

"Something's wrong!"

Fran unfurled her ears—stretched them wide.

"What?" Ghis was growling. "What is it?"

Scrambling footsteps, metal pounding on metal. Something about the backup generator—the engines draining, the stone burning. Then the lights began to flicker as the elevator's door whisked open, and Fran could barely decipher the shouts as the soldiers prodded her into the docking bay.

"Engine power is falling rapidly! We can't maintain hover!"

"Damn it, what's happened?" Ghis demanded.

"The nethicite is draining the ship's power!" another soldier replied.

"Disengage it at once!"

"We're trying! It's no good!"

One of the engineers spoke up amid the panic: "She'll reach critical in three hundred!"

A cloud of Mist billowed down the elevator shaft, rolling against Fran's legs and pouring into the open air over the desert between the docked ships—and Fran could hear no more.


	26. Chapter XXV

_XXV._

Mist slicked the floor of the _Leviathan's_ hangar, swirling, translucent, dissipating before Ashe's feet as the guards led her onward. Thinner than the cloud that had enveloped her in the tomb—thinner by far, and devoid of the visions and deceptions that had haunted her at the pyramid's peak. Rasler—she was sure of it. The silvery cloud had mirrored her own image before a faint flicker of light disrupted the air, and the Mist before her had quivered under the weight of her reflection, diluting the image, fading it briefly and reforming it into the semblance of her dead husband. The vision had scattered the moment she tripped back against the coffin, and the Midlight Shard grew heavy in her hand—firm, stable—emanating a gentle heat that bit against the chill of the tomb.

Another Mist illusion, she had told herself. An ancient working, set in place alongside the funneling storm, the clay soldiers, the flaming stallion—nothing that Raithwall's rightful heir should fear. And yet it weighed on her, trailed along behind her heart like a wisp of smoke as she climbed out of the temple, walked onto the bridge, watched Ghis's sword swing toward Balthier. She had been infused with something in that tomb—a smoldering, trembling thing that hadn't stirred in her for two years.

She hadn't expected the pang of loss that seized her when Ghis took the stone—a rip, a drop, cliffs falling away into a black and churning sea—though the pain of it paled the longer she followed Azelas through the _Leviathan_. She had fallen back as they left the elevator, walking tight at Basch's side as though there were any logic in clinging to one traitor while angry with another. Her protector—the guardian at her side since childhood. For so long, Ashe had kept her sights trained on the pit of vipers in Archades, and she had missed the snake that slithered in her own desert sands.

"I can't believe you just handed it over to that bastard," Balthier told her as they walked down the open-air pathway between two rows of docked ships.

"You'd rather I'd let him kill you?" she growled back.

"Better me than you."

"Since when are you so caring?"

He shook his head. "Nethicite is powerful enough on its own; deifacted nethicite could take out an entire city and then some. Ghis is going to overthrow the emperor."

Azelas stepped in: "Don't be ridiculous! He's sworn to protect the emperor."

"Oh, like you've sworn to protect Dalmasca?" Balthier asked.

Ashe shot him a glare. "Shut up, pirate!"

"If he means to use the stone on Archades—" Azelas replied, but the princess cut him off:

"You shut up, too, traitor!"

A weak gasp drew their attention—Fran was staggering, gripping her head, eyes clenched shut and ears rolled tight.

"Fran?" Balthier asked.

"The Mist is burning…" she rasped in reply.

Balthier halted, prompting the soldiers escorting the group to pause with him. Fran bent at the waist, every long muscle strained and quivering, and Balthier took her hands in his and lowered them slightly to meet her eyes. "Shhh…How bad is it?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Bad."

"Come on, Franny…"

"My gods," said Ashe. "What's wrong?"

A soldier approached, sword drawn. "Alright, lovebirds, break it up."

"We have to get her out of here," Balthier replied, mirroring his use of Archadian and negotiating his irons to allow him to place his arms around Fran's shoulders.

Penelo released a small questioning noise, a lurid emerald light glowing from her shackled hands—the synthetic nethicite.

Balthier paused, eyes fixed on the stone. "Uh oh."

The soldier pulled him to his feet while another approached Fran. "You! Stand!"

She remained crouched on the floor, eyes shut, hands in her hair, limbs quaking as the Mist pooled and puffed around her. The guard leaned down to force her up, and she knocked him back—at least six feet. The other soldiers released their prisoners in a panic, running to restrain the enraged Viera, but she stood then—unfolded upright—and burst the chains that bound her wrists, links tinkling to the metal walkway beneath her. She took out the guards with all four limbs, leaping and spinning and throwing them to the ground, and Balthier turned to Penelo, speaking Dalmascan:

"It's absorbing more Mist."

Penelo glanced about as chaos descended on the room. "The Mist?"

"Energy," he added, seizing her hands and picking the lock that bound them.

The Mist billowed up, seeping in close and thickening to an opaque white as a second squad of soldiers ran down the walkway toward Fran. Ashe tried to stick close to the others as the clouds rolled between them, reflecting reversed visions of the events taking place around the hangar, presenting Fran's onslaught nearer and then farther than it truly was from their position. The Viera looked almost in pain as she beat back the guards—more than a dozen of them now—hurling them through the air, bending their blades with whip-fast kicks.

"What's wrong with her?" Basch asked Balthier.

"Mist overdose," he answered, finishing with his bindings and setting to work on Ashelia's. "Ghis is releasing the Midlight Shard."

"What do you mean 'releasing' it?" the princess pressed.

"It's spent thousands of years absorbing Mist, right?" Balthier replied. "He's releasing it. Either he's committing suicide, or he has no bloody idea what's going on."

"Either way, we need to get out of here," said Basch.

"Right," Balthier agreed. "Penelo, give me the nethicite."

She recoiled, clutching the stone in both hands. "No way!"

"I'll give it back," he insisted.

"What're you gonna do with it?"

"Help Fran."

An Imperial sword clattered across the walkway to their feet, its blade twisted into a coil.

"How?" Penelo asked.

"Keep it close to her," Balthier answered. "It'll absorb the Mist before she does. I hope."

Her eyes darted between him and the stone for a moment before she offered it out. "Alright. But you better take good care of it."

"Monty would kill me otherwise," he said with a smirk, taking the nethicite as the Mist thickened between them. "Now make yourself useful and go get the _Strahl_ started up."

"Okay." Penelo disappeared into the shimmering fog as Balthier turned away, and Ashe turned to Basch only to find a wall of white Mist where he had stood.

A hand seized her wrist, then, and jerked her through the fog: Azelas, forcing her toward an Atomos.

"Princess," he begged, "please just listen…"

Ashe twisted her arm and broke free, but Azelas gripped her opposite wrist.

"I have listened enough!" she snapped. "I had faith in you, Azelas—you above all others. How could you do this?"

She nearly freed herself, but Azelas took her by both arms.

"This is what we've been fighting for!" he insisted. "You'll have your throne back."

A flash of color against the Mist showed Balthier inching his way toward Francesca elsewhere in the room. Klaxons began to sound.

" _My_ throne?" Ashe growled, thrashing against Azelas's grip. "I will not play puppet to Gramis! I will not shame myself like Ondore!"

"Vossler!" Basch broke through the Mist behind them, sword drawn. "Let her go."

"You know this is for her own good," Azelas insisted.

"She's not a child anymore," said Basch. "She can make her own decisions."

Azelas drew his sword as well. "Do you want Dalmasca to end up like Landis?"

"Stop it!" Ashe cried.

"I don't want it to end up like Bhujerba," Basch countered.

"Bhujerba may be shamed," said Azelas, "but the marquis is still alive."

"For how much longer?"

"Basch!" the princess pleaded. "Don't hurt him!"

"I'm not the one to worry about," Azelas replied.

And he released Ashelia and raised his blade, and Basch met it. The Mist swirled around the swinging steel, the clash echoing in a shattered ricochet of sound against the clouds and the walls they concealed. Ashe reached out to intervene, and a gust of white overcame her so quickly that she couldn't see past her own arm. The peal of clashing swords rang all around her, a disorienting scatter of sound that brought the Mist even nearer—into her eyes, her lungs—and she swiped, struck, fought her way though it toward her knights.


	27. Chapter XXVI

I busted through an extra chapter this week because I'm going to be out of town next week. You can probably expect a bit of time before the next update, but I'm not going on hiatus. I intend to get back to it as soon as possible.

Also, any ideas for a title? It's really starting to bother me.

 _XXVI._

Basch had sparred with Azelas enough to know his tactics, but he had the same advantage. His blows came in flurries, swift, sharp—a barrage that kept Basch from striking full force, too distracted with parrying the next volley—but the Mist had swept Ashe away, and he managed to throw Azelas back a step when he turned in search of her. A second swing sent him farther back still—strength was Basch's only hope of disarming him—but he regained his focus when the princess lurched through the clouds in pursuit and sidestepped Basch's third strike, taking his onslaught back up.

Ashelia's lips parted but formed no words, her eyes expanding as the moments passed and the roar of the bedlam that surrounded her grew. Another squadron of soldiers entered, charging through the haze and drawing steel on Francesca. Reflections in the Mist showed flashes of the brawl—more brutal by the minute—Balthier knocking back the occasional soldier as he edged closer to his partner, the synthetic nethicite blazing in his hand.

With blows slicing through the Mist and the steel floor of the hangar growing slick with condensation, the duel descended into chaos. They hacked and lunged, Azelas's precision at last faltering enough to open a gap. Basch took it, and floored him.

The fall did not disarm him—Basch knew better than to hope for that—but he struck faster from above than Azelas could from below, and his blade fell at Azelas's throat, but halted there, hanging in place while Basch turned to Ashelia. She opened her eyes and met his briefly—he had never seen her flinch so openly—and then she approached.

"Come on," she told Azelas.

Basch backed off, blade bared but lowered, and the princess took Azelas's hand, pulling him upright and onto his knees.

"What?"

"Come on!" Ashe repeated, yanking. "We're leaving."

He resisted her pull, eyes wide, face drawn. "We?"

Ashe dropped to one knee beside him and gripped his arm, but still could not drag him to his feet. "Azelas, I don't have time for this!"

"Basch is framed and you hate him, but I'm guilty and you forgive me in a matter of minutes?"

"I don't hate Basch. Now come on!"

"Highness, I have done my best for you. If you won't take this chance, I can't—"

"You're coming!" And Ashe fell forward against him, pulling him into an embrace. "You're coming with us."

"Ashe…"

Basch looked away. The sirens had drowned down to silence, all energy sapped from the ship, and several of the fleet's smaller vessels had spiraled to the sand below—emergency landings as engines fizzled and failed. A heavy yawing indicated that the _Leviathan_ would soon follow them.

"I'm tired," Azelas said, and when Basch looked again, he had put his arms around Ashe. "I just can't do this anymore."

She leaned back, eyes magnified with restrained tears, but Azelas took her hand before she managed a protest, laying the hilt of his sword—his initiation blade—across the princess's fingers. Ashe bit her lip.

"I taught you to fight for yourself," Azelas told her. "Now go do it."

This ship was losing hover. Fran had fallen to exhaustion, every soldier still conscious limping away, rushing back to their posts to land the dreadnought. Distantly, Basch could hear Penelo calling to Balthier some concern about the _Strahl_ 's engine.

He approached the princess and touched her shoulder. "Princess."

Taking in a breath to suppress an obvious sob, she shook off his hand and stood, then strode forth through the Mist, toward Penelo's voice.

Basch released a sigh, then turned back to Azelas, who remained kneeling. He turned his face down and ran his hands through his hair.

"All I have done…" he whispered. "I've always thought of Ashe first."

"I know," said Basch.

"Keep her well."

He nodded. "Goodbye."

In the _Strahl_ , Penelo tended to the ailing Fran, laying her out on one of the stacked cots in the cabin and holding her fingers firm around the nethicite. Ashelia sat in one of the cockpit's four seats, the sword laid across her lap, tracing the lettering on the blade with her fingers.

"Where's Balthier?" Basch asked Penelo.

"Engine room," she said, and he strode down the corridor to the tight spiral staircase that descended to the _Strahl_ 's lowest chambers.

The room was cramped and choked with Mist, the skull-sized chunk of magicite wired to the engine spraying sparks as Balthier—hands wound in towels—tried to pry it free.

"Can we fly?" Basch asked.

"More than we'd like," Balthier replied. "It's not draining the engines, it's overloading them."

"What?"

"The Midlight Shard. Whatever you want to call it." He jumped back from the stone with a hiss, shaking out one hand and wrapping it tighter. The circuitry snapped and crackled, embers flying. "It's releasing enough Mist to short us out. I'm going to have to hotwire it."

"Without magicite?" Basch asked.

Balthier leaned back and kicked his heel against the stone, at last disengaging it. The engine spurred, lights rising to full brightness throughout the engine room with a thrum that reverberated in Basch's chest.

"The Mist should be enough until we're clear of the blast zone," Balthier told him.

"This is Nabudis, isn't it?" His voice was low.

"All over again." Balthier snapped his arms to his sides to unravel the towels on his hands, then shoved them against Basch as he squeezed past him. He gestured to the magicite on the floor. "When our power dies, put that thing back."

"What?"

"The socket will suck it right in," he continued as he ascended the staircase. "Just get it back in when we start to drop."

He vanished into the hallway above, and Basch gripped the two towels, eyes on the magicite, and stepped up to the sparking socket. He had barely bound his hands when the ship lurched and sped out of the hangar, the momentum nearly throwing him back against the metal latticework caging the gears behind him. The seconds dragged on, the _Strahl_ humming at full speed, the horror of Nabudis tightening unbreakable threads around his heart.

 _Blast zone._ He had escaped it unknowingly then, the instantaneous sphere of white a surprise—almost a wonder—but now, knowing that it lay in wait—

And then a drop—a sudden sinking that nearly stole his feet out from under him—and he seized the scorching core and forced it toward the power socket. It zipped out of his hands and into place. A hail of cinders as the Mist drained, and then, with a thump and rumble, the ship regained hover and soared onward.

Basch cast the towels off—the heat had penetrated them, but done no lasting damage—and took the winding stairs two at a time. The cabin was empty, Fran leaning against the back of a chair in the cockpit while Penelo braced her from the side.

Balthier was at the controls, the ship leaning full tilt as it screamed across the desert. "This might get a little dicey…" he told them.

Fran gazed out the window, struggling to hold her head up, collapsing into the chair with Penelo's assistance. "The Mist…" she said. "It manifests now."

"Is that what you call this?" Penelo replied.

Ashe rose and leaned over the control panels. A small corner of the cockpit's window wrapped around enough to reveal the fleet behind them, a bubbling web of Mist ensnaring it all the way down to the sand.

Silently, brilliantly, the cloud erupted—a flash of white surged, expanded, affected an instant opacity as a burst of wind knocked the _Strahl_ forward only slightly: a small sputter to the engine, but nothing more. Its color wavered into a sickly purple-black, murky and mottled as oil on water. Balthier brought the ship under control and turned it as the light receded to a pinpoint and extinguished. A gust of sand spattered against the window. In the distance, the funnel of clouds around Raithwall's tomb lit up and rippled, fluctuating against the wave of sand cast against it, and then settling, just out of range of the stone's blast. The crater left amid the dunes bore no debris from the Eighth Fleet.

Ashe reached for Basch, first linking her arm around his, then finding and grasping his hand. He glanced down; the knuckles of her other hand had grown white on the hilt of Azelas's sword. A haze settled on the desert—residual Mist, coagulating over the great wound in the land. Basch had no words—thought that perhaps that was for the best—and deftly squeeze Ashelia's hand, prompting her to release her hold on him and turn away.

Fran struggled to her feet. "Penelo…" She held the nethicite out to the girl. "Thank you."

Penelo's eyes were glassy. "Uh—any time."

Slowly, steps lagging, Fran stumbled out of the cockpit, down the short hallway into the cabin. "I'm—going to lie down…"

"What's that?" Penelo leaned forward, gaze pointed, focused.

Something glimmered through the Mist, winking flashes of sunlight from the center of the crater, where it seemed that none could reach—an ethereal light, struggling to shine.

Ashe leaned in as well, and spoke softly: "I think it's the Midlight Shard."

"Don't tell me you want to go back for it," Balthier groaned.

"I still need proof of my identity," she bit back.

He rolled his eyes, hands loose at the control panel, flipping a switch and steering the ship onward. "Fine."


	28. Chapter XXVII

_XXVII._

All this trouble for a scolding—not that Vayne wasn't glad to see his home again, to trade the plain Dalmascan language for the graceful Archadian, to get Larsa as far away from the Resistance as possible. It was the Eighth Fleet, of course—the emperor had bid him return to Archades because he had deployed—"capriciously," the summons read—the Eighth Fleet into the desert, instead of sending it back to its post, and now it was gone: not a word, not a hint, not even a blinking dot on the radar. Early reports called it a sand storm—the winds still kicked up a funnel near the _Leviathan's_ last known position—but the absence of debris, the talk of Mist—Vayne knew what it was, had seen it firsthand at Nabudis: a third stone, hidden even from Cid, from Venat. How many others were there, he wondered? How many imitations would Draklor ultimately have to produce to beat them back?

And had the princess been the one to use it? Had it taken her down with the fleet? He doubted he was so lucky.

But the Senate demanded that Vayne answer for his actions—the Rozarrian Empire had assembled a vast host of airships near the western coast under the guise of martial exercises, waiting, as always, for the proper pretext to strike against Archadia, and were they to invade without the Eighth Fleet to meet them, the battle would be hard-fought. He expected how the meeting would go—how it would end—but he hadn't expected the welcome he received at the aerodome: the entire Judiciary force, half the Senate, the emperor himself. And they certainly weren't there for Vayne.

Larsa's panicked grip on his sleeve had spurred instincts in Vayne he had only felt on the battlefield—his other hand darted to the hilt of his sword when the exit hatch lowered. The small army of Judges and dignitaries lined the long path to Gramis, every one of them kneeling as the loading ramp lowered. The boy composed himself and released him, but Vayne felt him walking tight at his side as they approached their father—thought for a moment that he could hear the mortified pounding of Larsa's heart, though in hindsight he wondered if he had not in fact felt only the overprotective thump of his own.

Rozarria was Gramis's excuse—Rozarria was always his excuse. The little prince was kept secret to protect him from Rozarrian spies, and now that Archadia had secured the strength to maintain peace—laughable, Vayne thought—his birth could be properly announced. Celebrations had swept the Archadian capital, champagne flowing in the streets, but Vayne had only glared at his father while Larsa asked the same question in ten different ways:

 _Why?_

A rare feat—taking Vayne by surprise. He had always known that the Senators had plans for his brother, but he would never have guessed that they would act so quickly, while the boy was still so young. How had they bullied the emperor, he wondered? Convinced him he was underestimating Larsa's precociousness? Chided him for putting his family before his country?

Vayne knew well enough that it did no good to keep Larsa from the world, to pretend that ignorance was innocence, but the intrigue, the deception, the twisting roil of treachery that lurked in every shadow of the city—of the palace itself—Larsa was not ready to be a Solidor. It had been difficult, that Vayne had always been the bearer of bad news for his little brother, that the world had continued to disappoint. And now it fell to him to teach Larsa about lying, about war and infidelity and theft in all its perfectly legal forms, while Gramis, no doubt, would silently go on believing that Vayne was merely biding his time, prepared to kill the boy whenever he became inconvenient.

True, fraternity had not stayed Vayne's hand in the past—a twin tragedy, so close together, though his middle brother had long been destined for an ignoble end, with or without assistance. So many rumors, so much speculation, the overwhelming final consensus that it was House Solidor, and at least there was still an heir, and it did no good to look too closely. Gramis would have done well to fall in line with the other nobles, but his determination to prevent any further rivalry only embittered Vayne all the more: always the reminder of what Vayne had done—even if it was at his father's behest; always the unspoken assumption that everything good in Larsa came from his mother's side—the side they did not share.

Vayne's own mother had taken her own life—quietly, like a proper noblewoman—after that business with his brothers. He and Gramis didn't speak for six months afterwards, and Vayne had never been comfortable around his stepmother, who was little more than a year his senior, and the daughter of the deceased Judge Ferrinas, his mentor and bodyguard growing up. Vayne had only once or twice spoken with the girl at any considerable length, and he could scarcely recall what subjects they had covered. Her father's death—he remembered delivering that news. But another conversation always flitted at the edges of his memory: he could see her there on the balcony, the sun at her back, begging him not to hate her—but what had they discussed? A soft-spoken, lowborn girl—what would they even _have_ to discuss?

"I know it," she had said, and left.

And she had died before she could even name her son—Vayne had done it for her: _Larsa_ was Ferrinas's real name, before his ordination as a Judge. A week old, and Gramis hadn't even considered it until Vayne asked, too wrought with grief, too distracted by rage. But similarly: a week old, before Vayne thought to ask. He would never forget the tremor in his father's eyes when he found Vayne in the nursery holding the babe, Judge Drace silent and stationary nearby, no doubt itching for her sword. That fear—that dread, that expectation. And Larsa had gazed up at him with a calm wonderment, as though Vayne already knew his name, as though he had been waiting in wordless patience for him to speak it.

That moment, when he held the boy's life in his hands almost literally—when he chose to love instead of envy, to protect instead of compete—that moment had been the first time he truly exercised any authority over his own actions. The boy laid his head against Vayne's heart and softened into sleep there, and Vayne at long last had power over his father.

And now Gramis had found a way to wrest that power back. All these years he had endeavored to stem rivalry, and now he incited it; a reckless wager, that he might provoke Vayne to self-destruction. When he had finished expounding on Larsa's duty—his obligation—he dismissed the boy and his bodyguards and bade Vayne to stay a moment. Larsa looked dazed—always so smart, but unable to understand this—and Vayne ventured to pass his hand over his hair as he passed, but received no reaction. Drace and Gabranth fell in line on either side of him as he left the throne room, and Vayne met the emperor's eyes—held them firm for a moment before asking Bergan to wait outside.

When the doors shut, he spoke: "You're going to name him your successor."

"Did you really not predict it?" Gramis asked.

Strange, that Vayne didn't take more satisfaction in how much further his father's voice had faded since their last meeting. He had been in Draklor when they put the larger engines through their paces—a dreadnought class at full power owned every inch of the room, a resonant howl that dominated both breath and heartbeat—and even that he had found preferable to his father's voice in his youth. Whatever Gramis had once been, only an old man remained: wheezing breath, trembling hands.

Vayne set his jaw. "Let me guess: they told you that he will not be left alone in this—that they will advise him. Or some nonsense about grooming him from an early age if he is to meet his full potential."

"I will not live to see him grown," Gramis insisted. "With the country what it is, he will need guidance."

"He's a little boy," said Vayne. "The responsibility will smother him."

"And you think you would fare better? These days, you can scarcely last a year without cracking."

"And Larsa can scarcely last a week without escaping. He hates this life—can't you see that?"

Gramis's eyes hardened. He folded his hands behind his back. "It is better that he should rule his own country than be sold in marriage to another."

"Better for you."

"If you cannot abide this, Vayne, you would do well to marry yourself into House Margrace."

And Vayne wondered what it was the emperor could not bear to see: that Larsa loved Vayne more, or that he loved Vayne at all.

"I am the only thing keeping the Senate in check," he insisted. "They hate the very fact that House Solidor exists. If you're just going to hand Larsa over to them, then by necessity, we must find reason to silence them."

"Ah, yes, necessity," Gramis replied. "Does that word free you, I wonder? Diplomacy oftentimes works as efficiently as the sword." A pause, and then: "You show no hesitation to solve matters with blood."

Vayne nodded. "And yet you waged war on innocent lands."

There was a threat there: a dare, to feed Larsa the usual lies about preempting Rozarria now that he had seen the conquered lands, befriended the conquered people. It was a blind spot—a flaw of familial trust—that Larsa would never find his father to be at fault, that his part in it must have been only some grand mistake, a misunderstanding. Whatever Gramis might have assumed, Vayne would never force Larsa to choose between them. As far as he was aware, the emperor had hewn to this unspoken truce as well, though out of honor or guilt or the fear that Larsa would not choose him, there was no way of knowing.

The old man sighed, turning his eyes to the floor. "Is this your idea of vengeance, Vayne?"

"It is my idea of necessity."

"Haven't you always known that Larsa is Archadia's future? He may be young, but he is gifted."

"You can't just expect him to sit back and be trained as your replacement," Vayne insisted. "Whether you like it or not, he has free will."

"He will do as he's told."

Vayne laughed—just once, an echo that resonated up the walls. "For the gods' sake, Father, you're finally given a son you love, and you have no idea who he is."

Gramis winced at this, but hid it well. "Mind your words, Vayne. Either of your brothers would have run this country into ruin with their generosity."

"And what do you think Larsa will do?"

"I knew your brothers, and I see now that I know you. Do you really presume that I don't know Larsa?"

Vayne rolled his eyes. "Just tell me: when you look at him, do you actually see him or do you see his mother?"

"His mother was perfect," Gramis growled.

"His mother is dead," Vayne replied. "It's your responsibility to look after his wellbeing. You know very well he cannot handle an empire."

The emperor drew his shoulders back. "And you can—is that what this is about? Were Larsa never born, I would still not entrust my legacy to you."

"I want this," Vayne said, drawing his sword. "Larsa wants his own life—and he deserves to have it."

Gramis regarded the gesture without fear or surprise—Vayne hadn't expected either—but Vayne had plenty of memories to haunt the rest of his days, however many he had left, and one more seemed hardly the weight that would break him.

"You would dirty your hands to keep his clean?" the emperor asked.

"My hands were stained before he was born," he replied. "I see little reason to stay them now."

He had decided it long ago: the day his father used Larsa as a pawn was the day his father died. And true, Vayne had already used the boy—to extort Gabranth's complicity at Nalbina—but Vayne nurtured no delusions as to what he was, and knew well enough that he hadn't much time left with Larsa before he realized it, too. Larsa could be who he was meant to be because Vayne was who he needed to be; the boy's life was in Vayne's hands once more, and from that moment on it always would be.


	29. Chapter XXVIII

I want to thank Nolaquen265 and Lucy for the title suggestions. I'm trying to decide between "The Reins of History" and "Penelo's Path." The second works so well with this fic as a novelization of the game, focusing on two characters merging into one. But the first is much more in tune with this fic as a stand-alone, since someone who has never played the game wouldn't know that Vaan ever existed, let alone that he was replaced with Penelo. Both are so good, but in different ways. I'll keep thinking.

 _XXVIII._

It made him ache—seeing Larsa like this.

Shattered, confounded, abandoned and drifting while powerful men discussed his future without him—and through it all, so small in the three-story palace library, balconies and ladders and ornate spiral staircases towering all around him, bookcases looming heavily beneath the weight of three-hundred-thousand volumes. He paced, ran his hand along the gold-leafed spines, then leaned against the railing once more, peering down to the first floor, the doorway through which Drace had followed Bergan twenty minutes ago—or thirty; Gabranth had lost track.

"What's taking so long?" he asked.

"I'm sure they have much to discuss," the Judge answered.

"I don't need more security." And then: "I don't need less security."

"Your lord father would not reassign her."

Larsa was gazing up at him, eyes wide, knuckles paling. "Or you?"

Not for the first time in his life, Gabranth was grateful for the helm. Gramis was scheming, Vayne was fuming—the best chance they'd had in ages to remind him who his masters were, and what they could do when displeased. "Things have changed, Larsa," Gabranth said carefully. "The emperor only wants what's best for you."

The boy turned away, folding his arms over the wooden railing and resting his chin on them, slouching forward. Gabranth knew Drace would chide him for it; Larsa knew Gabranth wouldn't.

"I won't take Vayne's throne," he said. "They can't make me."

"No one's said anything about the throne."

"You know what's happening as well as I do."

Gabranth stepped up to the railing beside him, gaze drifting down. Larsa's eyes were hard, his jaw set tightly—a relief from the vacant stare he had adopted earlier in the day, but still a distance there that words could not cross, something of Vayne in that severity, or perhaps something of Gramis. "Your father can choose his successor," Gabranth told him, "and the Senate may back him or fight him on it, but when he is gone, it will be your choice whether or not to abdicate. Vayne knows that."

Larsa leaned into the Judge's side, and Gabranth laid a hand on his shoulder. "I just don't understand why he'd do this," the boy said.

A shout echoed from somewhere down the hall, vague and remote, answered by an equally indistinguishable voice. Larsa straightened.

"Perhaps we should go outside," Gabranth suggested.

The boy's eyes didn't move from the doorway below. "It's coming from the throne room."

"There's bound to be some discord."

"Go see."

Gabranth stepped back. "Larsa—"

"I want to know what's happening, Gabranth. Shouldn't I know these things now?"

And he sighed—strange, how the armor diminished some sighs and loaded additional weight onto others—but the coming days would be critical, the passage of information as crucial as the information itself, and whatever was going on in the throne room could very well steer Larsa's future—could very well crush it. He could feel the boy's eyes on him as he passed through the first floor doorway, and wondered distantly if he would still be there when he returned—and even more distantly if he wanted him to be. He didn't look back as he strode down the hallway.

Half a dozen soldiers guarded the throne room, looming near the tall double-doors, the echoes of their creaking armor echoing in the high marble hall as they shifted. The doors were open, and several other soldiers escorted Senators out of the crimson-robed chamber amid shouts of protest and indignation.

"We played no part in this!"

"This deception will not stand!"

Typical remonstrations of Senators, but so many of them at once—so many of them in agreement—there was more to this outrage than Larsa. The guards at the doors stood tall as Gabranth passed, but he drew to a halt only a few paces into the room.

Two bodies lay on the floor beneath scarlet drapes, blood pooling beneath them, slick and dark on the black marble. A rug had been rolled aside to escape staining.

"Vayne knew nothing of this," Bergan was insisting. His helmet was off, cast to the floor along with Drace's and Zargabaath's.

"She wasn't suggesting he did," Zargabaath replied.

"I was suggesting," Drace interjected, "that the chairman had no reason to kill His Imperial Excellency because His Imperial Excellency was giving the chairman exactly what he wanted."

"Gabranth."

Vayne said it, and Gabranth's shoulders tensed—dark Solidor eyes, calm, piercing, identical to Larsa's in every way but the sentiment behind them. He stood before the bodies, his hands folded behind his back, the setting sun hitting him full-force through the arched windows along the room's western wall.

Gabranth nodded. "Your Excellency."

"I trust my brother is well?"

"We could hear the shouting from the library. He asked me to look into it."

Vayne's jaw tightened only slightly, bronze flecks exposing the depth of his irises as the sunlight struck them. "Close the doors."

Gabranth did; Drace stared at him the whole time, something exposed behind her expression that he doubted the others could read.

"My father, His Imperial Excellency, has been murdered," Vayne went on, and Gabranth removed his helm, setting it to rest with others. "Factions have been at war within the Senate—one backing me as Emperor, the other seeking to replace me with Larsa so that certain houses might pull his strings from the shadows. This—announcement—taking Larsa public—it seems that Chairman Gregoroth was spurred to brash action."

"The chairman killed the emperor?" Gabranth asked.

Bergan stepped forward. "And Lord Vayne cut him down in His Imerpial Excellency's defense."

"Too late, I'm afraid," Vayne added. "And perhaps too quickly. Much of the Senate is culpable; we might have offered him mercy in exchange for exposing those who opposed him. I fear I have burdened us with a lengthy investigation."

A regal lie—as cultured and honorable as Archadian nobles imagined themselves, and told with good reason: they did have the power—all of the Judges together—to bypass the Senate, to choose the next emperor. Little confusion now in why Vayne had summoned Drace to hear it and not Gabranth—Drace would pursue justice, would need convincing, while Gabranth would gladly continue in silence while Vayne saw Larsa through this struggle no differently than he had through any other: as brother and mentor and—most importantly—the bigger target.

Vayne stepped around the corpses. "We have no choice but to strip the Senate of authority and assign powers of autocracy to me until such time as order—"

"Spare us your lies," Drace growled.

Silence. Vayne rolled his eyes.

"This was a stupid move, Vayne," she went on.

"Drace," said Zargabaath, "you speak too freely."

"Don't tell me _you_ join in this farce," Drace replied.

He recoiled—Drace had that effect on people—but kept his tone level: "With Rozarria poised to invade at any moment, our leader must have a free hand."

"Judge Drace," said Vayne, "do you dare accuse me of plotting to harm my dear lord father?"

"The emperor didn't have a year left to him as it was," she insisted. "I don't know if this is the result of your arrogance or your impatience, but it will cost you dearly."

Gabranth stepped in: "Drace, you know Larsa doesn't want to rule. Let it rest."

"Who are you to direct his future?" she snapped. "You've proven beyond all doubt that brotherhood means nothing in the shadow of power."

It was enough to silence him, and he softened—loosened—almost took a step back. Drace was not the type to raise her voice—she was not the type who needed to: dark Archadian eyes, imperious Archadian tone, but as difficult as she was to impress, there was always a sting of pain in disappointing her.

"His Excellency would never harm Lord Larsa," Bergan flared.

And Zargabaath spoke again: "He has everything Larsa could have taken from him—what reason is there left for any animosity?"

"I assure you all," Vayne groaned, "Larsa is safe with me."

Drace's left hand gripped the hilt of her sword, though she stopped short of drawing it. "There is not a single being in all of Ivalice that is safe with you."

"And you will protect him—is that it?" Vayne asked. "Shield him from the horrors of the world?"

She glared.

"I certainly hope you don't intend to safeguard him from the Resistance as you so effectively safeguarded me," he went on.

A slice of steel, and Drace's sword glinted in the sun for all to see. "I protect him foremost from you."

"Easy there." Vayne smirked as he said it.

"Are you going to feed him this lie yourself," she went on, "or do you expect one of us to do it for you? Did you think about him at all before you did it?"

The smile vanished. "I think of nothing but Larsa."

"I can't protect him anymore, Vayne. He'll see through this; he'll see the truth about you."

Vayne reached for his own sword, but Bergan proved the quicker draw.

"That is enough, Drace," he warned, holding the blade to her throat. "If you truly love that boy, you will end this nonsense."

"Or you'll end it for me?" she shot back.

"You leave me no choice," he replied. "Vayne did not make himself Emperor; it was the very ministry of law which you serve."

She gritted her teeth. Vayne's hand fell from the hilt of his sword, though his expression did not soften, and gave her a forlorn glare, more desperation than fury. To bare her sword at the emperor was to bare her sword at the law—this was treason.

"You wear your saddle well, Bergan," she said at length.

Then she dropped her blade with a sullen _clank_ , and a moment of stillness briefly befell the room, only to be shattered by the screech of steel on steel: Bergan clashed his blade against her armor as she stood unarmed before him. Gabranth stepped forward, but Zargabaath stood stationary, his expression dumbfounded. Though completely floored, Drace regained her sword in an instant and fended off a killing blow from Bergan, and Gabranth drew his own blade and threw Bergan off her, knocking him to the marble. He stopped there, however, noting the look of displeasure Drace gave him, but felt a pang of justification upon catching Zargabaath turn away in an attempt to hide his smile.

After a moment, Vayne spoke: "Brash, aren't we?"

"Gabranth—" Drace made to stand, but Vayne placed a hand on her shoulder and held her firm.

"Stay down."

Gabranth sheathed his sword while Bergan sat up, glowering.

"A hound begging for scraps at the emperor's table…" Vayne went on, stepping up to Gabranth. "Would you serve another master?"

"My only loyalty is to Larsa," Gabranth answered.

Vayne studied him for a moment. "If you truly expect me to believe in your loyalty," he said, "then prove it to me. You may fulfill your duty to the Judiciary before us all." He turned, looking down on Drace and meeting her eyes. "She has been tried and found guilty."

"Your Excellency," Zargabaath said softly, "please reconsider…"

The conversation continued, but Gabranth heard only the wordless drone of voices. He turned to Drace, who looked up at him with the sort of expression that usually preceded a weak smile. She seemed to swallow a sigh—almost seemed to shrug—wordlessly bidding him forward.

A part of him knew that he had agreed to this years ago—that she was after all an Archadian, and that Archadia was after all an Empire. A part of him had known all along that no soul could be safe under such a regime—indeed, not even the emperor's. But Drace had always seemed indomitable—untamable. It was people like her that reminded him of precisely _how_ his homeland had been conquered. It was people like her that reminded him why he no longer cared. But a part of him also knew that she had agreed to the same fate, and that she certainly must have been expecting it for quite some time. Drace was the only mother Larsa had ever known, and she would only abandon him if she knew it to be for his own good.

She turned her sword inward, offering Gabranth the hilt, and after a moment's hesitation, he took it, kneeling beside her and placing a hand on her shoulder to carefully push her down against the floor.

"Do it." She took hold of the blade and set it at her throat. "That's an order, by the way."

He turned away. "Don't be like that…"

"I'm sorry I brought up your brother."

"Drace…"

She looked beyond him for a moment, to Vayne and the others, Zargabaath pleading for her life and Bergan justifying her execution. And then she reached up and placed a hand on Gabranth's shoulder. "There is no hope for me," she told him in Landisian. "You have to maintain your position—to protect Larsa."

Still, he hesitated, blade on the vein. If she felt any pain at all, it would be quick. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

The sword slid down with expert speed, and her hand fell to the floor. Against his will, he memorized the weak sigh that accompanied her final breath.

The voices behind him fell silent, and Vayne stepped to his side, glowering over him, a nauseating expression of pride flickering through his eyes.

"Your loyalty is moving," he said at length. "However, in good conscience, I don't see how I can entrust my brother to the protection of someone so—heartless."

Gabranth looked up. A hush descended once more, the other Judges staring at Vayne along with him.

"Vayne…" Bergan warned quietly.

"Larsa's been getting into increasing amounts of trouble all his life," Vayne went on. "It's about time he moved past the influence of his bodyguards and found some decent role models."

"Bodyguards?" Gabranth scoffed. "I have raised Larsa from the time he could barely walk."

"You and Drace."

"My lord, please! You can't take him away from me…"

Vayne smiled. "Larsa's circumstances have changed. I shall have to put some thought into his future."

And with that, he strode out of the room, bidding the Judges over his shoulder to clean things up before he returned. Gabranth turned his gaze to the towering windows, the red wash of the sky beyond fading to darkness.


	30. Chapter XXIX

Okay, now I'm stuck between Reins of History and Chains of the Past. You guys are way better at this than I am! I'll keep thinking and keep writing…

In the meantime, this is an area of the story that I changed pretty significantly. I felt like the Garif were just sort of a plot device, so my options for fixing that was to get them more involved, or to cut them entirely. I figured cutting them would be the least impactful method. Please let me know if you disagree. I will almost certainly be doing a third draft someday (assuming I manage to finish this one), so there is plenty of room for change.

 _XXIX._

Basch might have been glad, had he known what was good for him—the princess complacent at his side, all shadows of suspicion at last recoiled—but without Azelas—with the way the whole bloody thing ended—

He sat in silence on an empty crate, gazing across the tiny room to Ashe. Damp and cramped—not much better than Nalbina's torture chamber, though brightened considerably by the company—the hidden chamber beneath Migelo's storeroom had safeguarded its fair share of smuggled weaponry, but never a treasure of this value. She sat on the second step of the wooden staircase leading up to the door—false floorboards beneath empty crates—her elbows resting on her knees, her hands converging on the Midlight Shard. Azelas's sword leaned upright in the near corner.

It had been one thing, fleeing through the trees beyond Nabudis, caught up in the flash and the roar, engines shattering as they fell from the sky, but watching the stone in action over the sandsea—expecting it, seeing it beginning to end—the revelation had left him less at ease than the mystery itself. Too much power, too simple and total a destruction: The idea of ten-thousand lost became clearer to him, standing in the middle of it, the Mist choking them as they followed the princess toward the glimmer in the haze. He hadn't seen her put it down since she plucked it from the sand nearly a week ago.

To think he had dreaded so small a thing all this time—that this weapon Archadia had unleashed on Nabudis was a rock—just a rock, dark and dull in Ashelia's narrow fingers. The two years he spent in Nalbina remained little more than a blur of mud, blood, and misery in his mind, yet he recalled the puzzle, the horror—all the time in the world to contemplate what he had seen, to dread the day news reached him of Rabanastre suffering the same fate.

The princess had turned her gaze from the stone, eyes resting on the blade in the corner.

Basch braced himself. "No one has to know," he said.

She nodded, looking again to the nethicite and then to the floor. "It's not fair."

"No part of this has been. Very little is in our control, but we have to do what we can."

"I know."

He wanted to say more—had from the moment he saw her aboard the _Leviathan_ —but the past was a personal thing to Dalmascans, and it would be an insult to her to say that lingering on Azelas brought him no honor, that continuing on did not equate forgetting, that it was no betrayal—to her husband or her father—to smile.

She clasped her hands more tightly around the Midlight Shard, and he had to resist striking it from her hands.

"Princess?"

She didn't look up, her voice quiet. "This isn't going to be good, is it?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"On with it then."

"After Rasler—" He set his jaw briefly. Arrow near the heart, heavy bleeding: Ashe knew all this—no point repeating it. "The medics had made camp in the woods outside the city. I tried to get him there. We were barely half a mile away, and the entire city—just lit up. I assumed the paling had given out and a ship crashed down, but—it had to have been nethicite." He left out the part about the wind throwing them forward, the trees tilting around them.

Ashelia studied him, the intensity of that focus somehow sharpened over the last two years, but some part of her—miserable, horrified: he wasn't sure—softened as she spoke. "The Dawn Shard?"

"I wish I knew for certain," he said.

"But…" She turned to the nethicite in her grasp, then stood and stepped toward the center of the room. "I don't understand. This kind of power—why would Raithwall leave us such a thing?"

"Protection?" Basch suggested. "I've been wondering just that."

"What could we possibly need that kind of protection from?" she pressed. "What enemy could earn such punishment?"

He broke eye-contact, and the princess allowed her arms to drop to her sides, one hand wrapped around the stone.

"Maybe Azelas was right," she said. "We should have just given it to them—rid Dalmasca of this burden."

And at this, he shuddered: Archadia already had the Dusk Shard—could wipe out Rabanastre, could very well pass it along to their spies in Rozarria and blast the entire capital while waging war at the border. Landis was lost, Nabradia broken; eliminate the chance for an alliance with Rozarria, and all Dalmasca's courage would be crushed back to the sand that birthed it.

Basch blinked slowly—painfully—and answered the princess in as calm a tone as he could manage: "I can't condone what I've seen it do, but still I'd rather have it used by Dalmasca than against it."

"If Archadia continues its war, this could be our only chance." Her voice sounded forlorn—childlike. "We can't very well declare Dalmasca free without the means to defend ourselves."

"It may not come to that," he added. "They went to great lengths to steal a single piece of nethicite from Dalmasca—they must be desperate."

She nodded, gaze distant. "The Resistance—that's why they've kept it a secret for so long, even after Nabudis. They'll make an example of us the first chance we give them." She held the stone up, eyes fixed on it. "This is our protection. It must be."

Basch shook his head. "Do you really want that on your conscience?"

The low light had rendered her eyes a steel-toned silver, and there was an opaqueness to them when they met his that seemed to break apart only to grow dull behind a veil of shadow. Her mouth opened, but formed no words, and the scraping of wood against wood overhead drew both their gazes upward—crates sliding across the floorboards above, clearing the trap door there. The planks lifted, and Penelo dropped down through the aperture, pulling the door shut as she descended the steps.

"Back so soon?" Ashelia asked.

"There wasn't much to do," she said.

Migelo's voice sounded overhead, directing a few children to move a sack of flour into the kitchen.

Ashe shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"Well," said Penelo, dusting her hands off on her thighs, "there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

The princess glanced at Basch, but he had nothing to offer.

"Better make it the bad," she said.

Penelo's shoulders sloped a bit. "I was afraid you'd say that. Apparently your uncle has, um—disappeared."

Ashe blinked. "Disappeared?"

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "Took off right after you did—with pretty much the entire Bhujerban air brigade."

"Then at least the Empire hasn't claimed him," Ashelia sighed, taking a seat on the crate beside Basch and turning the nethicite over and over in her hands.

"Most of Rabanastre's Resistance members have run off, too," said Penelo. "Migelo says everyone who could fight or fly a ship went with the marquis to train."

"Perhaps you actually got to him," Basch suggested to the princess.

She shook her head. "Massing the troops…It's too soon. We can't take on the Empire like this."

"The marquis wouldn't rush into battle," said Basch. "We may yet be able to find him."

"In Rozarria, no doubt."

He sighed and turned to Penelo. "You said there was good news?"

The girl's eyes flitted away briefly, one hand darting to her opposite arm and gripping it. "Well—I mean, it's sort of good news."

Ashe looked at her—not a glare, but loaded with an unspoken demand.

"Do you, um…" Penelo's eyes darted from one of them to the other and back. "You remember Larsa, right? On the _Leviathan_?"

"Of course," said Ashe.

Basch felt his feet dig in against the ground, and hoped it didn't show.

"Well," Penelo went on, "it turns out he's not really from House Vanidicus. He's, um—he's a Solidor."

The princess paused. "What?"

"He's the emperor's son—the consul's brother. They announced it a few days ago. Kept him secret all this time so Rozarria wouldn't go after him."

Basch ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "There's only one reason they'd make it public."

"What?" Penelo asked.

"Vayne just lost his throne."

"But that's good, right?" she pressed.

Ashe shook her head. "It's stupid. The emperor's lost his mind."

"But Larsa wouldn't hurt Dalmasca. He and the marquis are friends."

"Penelo," the princess insisted, "Larsa won't last long enough to rule."

The girl fell speechless, eyes wide, voice struggling.

"Even if he survives Vayne," said Ashe, "Halim will strike while he's young and weak. It may well mean progress for us, but it's a death sentence for Larsa."

"Gabranth is one of his security guards." Basch said it without thinking, and the princess turned to him, though her eyes were not nearly as cutting as he had expected. "I always figured he was a Solidor," he added with a shrug. "I just couldn't tell if he was Vayne's son or Gramis's."

"He'll look after him, right?" Penelo asked. "I mean, he's got two Judges following him around everywhere he goes. They'll keep him away from Vayne?"

Basch tried to nod, but wasn't sure he succeeded. "My brother would do anything for that boy."

"It's a shame," Ashe agreed, "but there's nothing we can do for him now. We've got to focus on our own problems."

"What problems?" asked Penelo. "We've got the Midlight Shard. That thing can win the war for us. We won't even need the air brigade."

"I wish it were that simple," said Ashe. "I don't even know how to use it."

"Well, they do. Just threaten them with it. Make them negotiate."

Ashe shook her head. "There's more to it than that."

"Everyone's saying the emperor is sick." Penelo's hands were clenched into fists. "This was his first public appearance in a year, and everyone's saying he looks bad—he doesn't have much time left. If you show up with nethicite and tell him what he's doing is stupid—"

"Larsa?" Ashe was looking up, through the slats in the floor overhead.

Penelo fell silent. "What?"

The muffled hum of Migelo's voice sounded nearby—not in the storeroom, but near the doorway. He was talking with a child—nothing unusual there—but there was something familiar there, something too formal to be Dalmascan. Penelo walked toward the voices, eyes trained up, and Basch and Ashe both stood.

"Wait here," Basch told the princess, and started up the stairs, through the door.

Penelo bounded up behind him, taking the steps two at a time.

"I'm afraid I don't know any Amalia," Migelo was saying.

The door was cracked open, sunlight in a shaft across the floor.

"What about Penelo? Doesn't she work here?"

Cultured Archadian accent, even gentleman's tone—Basch was about to step forward and usher the boy out of the open, but Penelo sprung ahead, burst through the door.

"Larsa!"


	31. Chapter XXX

_XXX._

"Penelo!"

Larsa looked tired—his eyes sunken, his shoulders lax—but he ran to meet her, crashing into her arms, and she bent low and pulled him close.

"How did you get all the way out here?" she asked.

"Long story," he replied. "It's good to see you."

He was trembling, but she could think of no way to question him on it as he pulled back, his eyes wide and nailed on hers. Migelo stood nearby, a hand on his hip.

"Where are your Judges?" Penelo asked.

"They're around," he told her.

"Around?"

"The world."

"Larsa—"

And Basch stepped out of the storeroom, his voice deep and stern: "You came to Rabanastre without any security?"

Migelo spoke up as well: "And went looking for the Resistance?"

"I know it was irresponsible," Larsa pleaded, "but I didn't know who else to come to."

"Come to for what?" Penelo asked.

The boy hesitated, meeting the eyes of all three of them in searching succession. "I don't know. Help."

"Archadia is hated here, Larsa," Basch insisted. "It's the last place you should go for help."

He looked away. "I suppose I shouldn't tell you I went to Rozarria first, then."

"Larsa!" It came not from Basch or Penelo or even from Migelo, but rather from Ashelia, who stepped into the doorway and leveled a glare on the boy. "You are more than old enough to know the danger you pose to your father even traveling with a proper security detail. The only help we will offer you is an escort back to Archadia."

Basch was easily twice Ashelia's size, but Penelo thought for a moment than she blocked all light from the windows in the room behind her in a way that his ease and smoothness hadn't dared. The little prince didn't recoil, though—he lurched forward, voice urgent:

"Won't you even listen to me?"

"Alright," Migelo interjected, ushering the group back through the door, into the musty chamber beyond. "Out of the open, all of you. Whatever is happening here can happen behind closed doors."

They all shuffled into the back room, puffs of dust illuminated by the midday light beaming through the high, narrow windows. Penelo might have laughed—Migelo wrangling two royals and a knight no differently than he wrangled Rabanastre's orphans—but the grimness of Larsa's countenance—the severity of Ashelia's—it was all Penelo could do to keep up. Migelo disappeared into the shop, slamming the door behind him, and Larsa spoke up before the princess could:

"We're trying to arrange peace talks before the Resistance launches an attack."

"We?" the princess asked.

"One of Rozarria's princes has been in league with Doctor Cid for years. He's agreed to represent his father's empire if you'll represent Dalmasca and Nabradia."

Penelo bit back a gasp.

"Dalmasca and Nabradia are Archadian territories now," Ashe replied, folding her arms. "I have no more right to represent them than you have to represent your father's empire or a Margrace prince has to represent his."

"But it would be more than that," Larsa insisted. "We can sway the leading forces before they declare war. Forgive me, Your Highness, but surely you know as well as I do that your uncle is preparing an attack on Archadia—that Rozarria is only waiting for it to happen, and Archadia will have no choice but to answer when they back Halim. My brother isn't far from the throne, and he has a new weapon at his disposal—he could create another Necrohol without a moment's hesitation."

Penelo wanted to seize him—to pull him away and recite in detail the happenings of the last two years. Basch seemed to share the sentiment, his eyes sharp and expression bleak. Distantly, she wondered if he could be trusted with the boy—if this was the best opportunity for vengeance against his brother he'd ever faced.

"You are reaching too far for your own good, Larsa," Ashelia warned.

"Then prove me wrong," Larsa replied. "Meet with us at Bur-Omisace with the Gran Kiltias as mediator. If he gives you his blessing to rightly wear your crown and declare the restoration of your kingdom, you can call for peace with Vayne and stop Halim."

"Peace?" the princess growled. "The Empire attacked us—stole all we hold dear—and you would have me save them from war?"

"Dalmasca would be the battlefield! What if nethicite were used on Rabanastre? You know my brother would do it."

Penelo stepped in, and the gravelly tone that overcame her voice surprised her: "Larsa, stop it!"

The boy leaned back—he had been leaning forward as he spoke. He did not look at Penelo, but his expression seemed to expand from earnestness to shock, eyes widening as he took in Ashelia's reaction. The princess tensed—all anger wrung inward—and turned away, taking a few steps between the crates. When she finally lifted her head, she looked not at Larsa, but toward the sunlight streaming in above her.

"I'm sorry if I presumed too much," Larsa continued, "but please understand: I just don't want anyone to get hurt. If you can't trust me, then—well, take me hostage. Father will have to listen."

Ashelia was still. "Did you know nethicite was what destroyed Nabudis?"

He shook his head fiercely. "No. We didn't even know the Dusk Shard was nethicite until last week."

And now the princess's eyes fell to her hand—to the stone she clutched there. "Do you know how to use it?"

Larsa shifted his weight and leaned to one side, craning to see the Midlight Shard. "Is that…?"

"Do you?"

"No. No, whoever used it at Nabudis—it wiped out everyone. They call it a victory for Archadia, but we lost an entire fleet in that attack—thousands of ground troops."

Ashelia's arm dropped to her side. Basch took a step closer to her.

"I'm sorry," Larsa added. "That's nothing compared to what Nabradia lost."

Penelo studied Ashelia in the silence that followed, and thought she looked too real amid the boxes and sacks—the distant, shining princess of Dalmasca's glory days, standing there in boots and pants and a belted tunic, a sword strapped to her side, her hair cut blunt and short. Penelo hadn't noticed the sword at her other hip—Azelas's sword—until the princess drew it, slowly, and turned the flat of the blade upward. She could see Ashe's eyes reflected soft and gray in the steel. She tucked the Midlight Shard into her pocket and tapped her nails on the sword, and the minute _clink_ of her wedding ring on the steel seemed to fill the room as she slid the blade back into its sheath.

"I think I will take you hostage," she said, turning to face Larsa.

The shock registered on his face beneath a veil of doubt, Penelo's hand tightening on his shoulder, but Ashe continued before he could speak.

"Until we reach Bur-Omisace. The borders are a nightmare right now, and you seem to have more contacts than my uncle has left me."

The boy worked to restrain a smile. "My friends in the customs office were only good for one favor, but I may be able to get us a pilot."

She clenched her jaw. "Don't tell me."

"He's the only show in town," Larsa went on. "And he's the closest thing to an expert on nethicite that we'll find outside of Draklor."


	32. Chapter XXXI

_XXXI._

There had been something ghostly about it: Ashelia vanishing in a wisp of Mist, Basch to her left and Penelo to her right, the desert around them rendered cool and moist in the aftermath of Ghis's palm-sized genocide—and all through it, the Midlight Shard shimmered clear and bright through the fog. He had refused to fly the _Strahl_ into the sea of Mist—the engine couldn't handle it, and neither could Fran—but even on the outskirts, even in the cockpit, the vapor penetrated his very thoughts, and it was as though he stood at the edge of the Necrohol once more, breathing in the Mist, choking on the wraiths.

He had thought he understood, surveying what remained of Nabudis. The Mist had clung to everything, thick enough that it was difficult to breathe, stinging his lungs, yet that was not what left him dizzy, staring at an endless plain of cracked stone, all set at a slant. It tilted the _entire damn city_ —and Balthier had felt the world fall away in a moment of perfect clarity.

"A _miscalculation_?" Cid had demanded. "A fleet and a half and every civilian for miles, and you call it a _miscalculation_?"

Balthier couldn't tell if he was shouting at himself or Venat. Vayne stood nearer the crater's rim, swirls of Mist curling around him, blurring his edges until he seemed an extension of the massacre, of the silence that remained.

And Ashe—a specter in the haze, as foolish and righteous and strong-willed as the prince she thought was her enemy.

She had gone in search of the Resistance once they reached Rabanastre's aerodome, and Fran had stared at Balthier a long time—the woman gave as many stares as she received—until he retreated to the engine room. It had been sputtering—lights flickered in the cockpit, the controls stiff and jerking against him—and Fran needed to rest, anyway; at least, he told her as much. And then the cleaning, the polishing—sand in the air vents, scratches and knicks catching light in all the worst ways: this damned desert had wreaked havoc on his ship, he whined. And Fran continued to stare.

"I hear something."

Balthier looked up, a scrap of polish-stained fabric in his hand, smooth against the side of the _Strahl_. Fran stood on top of the ship, ears wide, eyes narrowed across the bustling aerodome.

"They're looking for the _Strahl_ ," she added.

"Imperials?" He should have taken to the sky sooner—Bergan had a hit out on him, and news of Larsa's existence would only distract him for so long.

"The princess," said Fran.

And he turned, studying the crowd, and Fran was at his side a moment later—silent even in leaping and landing.

"She may be able to pay this time," she said.

"Unlikely," he replied.

Viera, he often thought, were the best of all possible mercenaries: completely uninterested in nearly all the affairs of courts and kings, immune to matters of ego, considering most double-dealing to be beneath them. Francesca certainly didn't need him—her work was quiet and profitable, and there was no mention of a quick-fingered Viera in any city's report. But they shared something intangible, unspeakable in the most subtle and fragile of ways: both could go home, but neither of them would; both could find work in Balfonheim, yet understood all too deeply that there was no peace even in the anonymity of a crowd. Piracy attracted a motley sort, but he had never fit in as well as Reddas believed he did, still drifting, still stumbling, still outcast where there were no outcasts. But he and Fran—they shared something: they were exiled by choice.

He turned back to the ship and tossed the towel into the box at his feet. He'd be taking her wherever she wanted to go, of course—the princess. No point in pretending he had any willpower there. Fran studied him, but did not speak, packing the supplies in silence at his side.

"Hey!" It's Penelo, bounding up behind them. "Leaving already?"

"You didn't expect me to stay in this sand trap, did you?" Balthier asked over his shoulder.

"I thought you liked us," she cooed.

"Don't flatter yourself."

Ashe spoke up: "Only you get to do that, right?"

"Your Highness," he groaned, turning to face the group. And he stopped then—Larsa, bright-eyed but exhausted, the worst for wear Balthier had ever seen him. Seeing Basch a step behind him chased all thought from Balthier's head for a moment: Basch, not Gabranth. "Ah," Balthier added. "And Your Excellency."

"You've been taking good care of her," the boy replied, darting up to the _Strahl_ and laying both hands on the gleaming panel.

"You thought I wouldn't?"

"I'm allowed to be worried. I helped build this thing, you know."

Balthier folded his arms. "From my design. And you have no business running around in public now. Least of all with the likes of them."

"We've already given him the lecture," said Ashe. "And we have no intention of harming him."

"I don't doubt it," Balthier replied. "Start out awfully cute, don't they? As if the world ever needed another Solidor."

"It didn't exactly need another piece of nethicite, either," Larsa added.

Fran packed up the two metal boxes of tools at their feet and carried them into the ship without a word.

"Cid finally leveled with you, did he?" Balthier asked.

Larsa's expression was dark. "He said they only wanted the Dusk Shard so the Resistance couldn't use it against us."

"And you believe him?"

He shook his head.

And Penelo stepped in, holding out the little green chunk of crystal that Larsa had given her. "What about this one? Is it dangerous?"

"Hard to say," said Larsa. "Supposedly, it's only meant to power airships."

"If it's still in the experimental stages," Balthier added, "it could very well be worthless."

"And the Midlight Shard?" Basch asked.

"It's already been used," Balthier explained. "There's no Mist left in it."

Larsa's eyes darted to each one of them in succession. "You used it?"

Ashe shook her head, but said nothing, and then something passed over Larsa's countenance—curiosity giving way to defeat.

"The Eighth Fleet…"

"It was an accident," said Ashe. "We think Ghis hooked it up to the _Leviathan's_ engine."

The boy fell silent, and Balthier stepped in: "It can prove who you are, but don't count on using it for another thousand years or so."

The princess pulled the stone from her pocket, shaking her head. "A waste…"

"No, Princess," Balthier told her, "Nabudis was a waste. This was the best luck you've had in years."

And now her fingers tightened around the stone, her eyes meeting his and holding them firm. "You're hardly qualified to judge."

He smiled. "You don't like me; I can handle that. But if you don't mind me asking—Is it because I'm a pirate or because I'm Archadian?"

She grit her teeth. "It's because you're a jackass."

"Ashe," Basch said quietly, and Larsa spoke up:

"We need a ride."

"We?" Balthier asked.

"Vayne has the Resistance scattered," he explained. "You're the only one we can trust."

"Well," he replied with a laugh, "isn't this just the darkest day in the history of Ivalice? Where are you headed?"

"Mount Bur-Omisace."

"The summit?"

"Yes. We need to speak with the Gran-Kiltias."

"That's far beyond the Ozmone Plains," he scoffed. "Not exactly close."

Larsa was working every tactic he had: big eyes, sweet smile, bouncing and swaying faintly as though Balthier needed only to say one word to bring him all the joy in the world—the same way he wrangled funding for the lab out of Vayne and Reddas. Balthier was immune, or perhaps just disillusioned: he had always seen Larsa for what he was—that he was fully aware of the power he wielded, that he thought nothing of lies and told them well, that he widened his eyes and tilted his head and smiled just slightly and in just such a way as to manipulate everyone into serving his needs. The boy was good—very good.

But the princess spoke for him: "I can pay you when I assume the throne."

Once again, Balthier smiled. "Straight to the point, aren't you? I like that. But the fact of the matter is the last time you promised me payment, it never quite materialized."

Folding her arms, she leveled her eyes on him and spoke in a chilling tone. "Collateral—is that what you want?"

"No, but for the time being, it would suffice."

Her eyes flashed away from him only briefly. "How about the nethicite?"

"Ha! Why in the name of any god would I want that?"

"Because it's the most valuable thing I have to offer?"

"Value is relative, Highness. Just because it's valuable doesn't mean it's important."

"I see…" Her gaze fell to the floor for a moment, and then she uncrossed her arms, fingers sliding over each other smoothly, lightly—a searching air, one hand gripping at the other for assurance. And then she slid off the thin silver band and held it out daintily.

He paused—faltered—and extended his hand, palm up, letting her drop it in rather than take it from her. "Alright then," he said at length. "You've got yourself a ship. We can leave whenever you're ready."

Ashe nodded. "That would be now."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He looked upward, behind him—Francesca stood in the entry hatch, exactly where he expected to find her. "Fran?"

"There are three Imperial checkpoints on the way," she reported—those ears: never a word missed. "One we'll have to sneak through, but we can avoid the other two if we go around the Sandsea. It's six hours off course."

"Considering I've got a bloodthirsty Judge on my tail," said Balthier, "I think we can spare six hours."

"Good point," she replied, disappearing into the hatch.

"I thought you just cleared your name," Basch cut in.

"That was a week ago, Basch," he shot back. "Try to keep up." He started up the stairs, gesturing for the others to follow, his other hand lingering on the frailty of the ring in his pocket for a moment more.

For two years, the word Nethicite flickered in and out of the world like a wandering ghost, growing rumor and speculation turning up in this port and that, but always in whisper and speculation and the all-too-common scoff: Why should Archadia need a new weapon? As if what they had now was simply not destructive enough. But Balthier had seen all three of the stones now, and knew from their cut that there were more—a larger whole, a host of Shards, perhaps smaller or larger, rare or plentiful; they knew only of the three bequeathed by Raithwall.

A spiteful, ugly part of him hoped very much that the Empire would find another, and more—that the great houses of Archades would get their dearest wish for power and choke on it. Let them be so greedy, to master artificial production—let them discover the power of nethicite and let it crush them beneath its weight for the next age. See if they could so easily bear the burden.

And Ashe—

The stone was empty—it must have been after that display in the desert—and yet it was full of thirst; a terrible longing to drink the world dry. Already, he could see the ambition in her eyes, the answer she had ready for the nethicite's unending question—and Basch and Penelo and even Larsa would trust to her judgment and follow her to destruction. He gripped the ring—narrow, delicate—and then put his hands to the controls. They had no idea how much larger this was—than one war, than one country, or any moment in time.


	33. Chapter XXXII

Okay, it's taken me forever, but I've decided on a title. It is subject to change and probably will. On with the story…

 _XXXII._

Ashelia had fallen asleep in the cabin, the gentle hum of the _Strahl's_ engines a droning comfort that drained all other sound from the world, but she had eased into consciousness as they slowed and nearly silenced, the ship drawing to a stagnant hover. She sat up in the dark and flipped her legs over the edge of the cot—two rows of them flanking a walkway: perhaps once intended to be a medical vessel, or a search and rescue craft; Balthier's comment about it being made from his design had piqued her curiosity alongside her suspicion.

Balthier was a rarity in Archadia: light hair, light eyes, both the same shade of gold. The Archadians had a word for people like him—it translated roughly as _sun-child_. But he was nevertheless Archadian—pillowy accent and conceited air and everything—and she had been glad to leave him behind after Raithwall's tomb, after the _Leviathan_ —after that alarming flutter, that absurd twist within her when Ghis set his blade at the pirate's throat—but Larsa had had a point: Balthier was Archadian, and his prince was without Judges to protect him.

Of course, if Balthier was Archadian, Larsa was practically Archadia itself. Ashe had battled with it behind Migelo's shop: The mere fact that he was young should not determine how deeply she trusted him. The perfect way for Vayne to gain her trust—an impressionable child, eager to please, not above bending the rules when he thought it was important enough. If Vayne convinced him this was for the greater good—if he really believed there would be negotiations—

And it occurred to her then that Larsa had little value as a hostage if Vayne perceived him as an obstacle to his throne. If Gramis's days were numbered, it seemed likely that Larsa's were, as well.

The boy had apologized to her when they first set out: "I wasn't much of a gentleman back there."

"I wouldn't have listened if you had been," she had replied with a nod.

And all concern passed, all fear for the future released, and Larsa bounded around the _Strahl's_ cockpit, first begging for a turn at the controls, then persuading Balthier to give Penelo a lesson in flight. The ensuing tumult had drawn Ashe from her trance—tracing Azelas's name on the flat of his sword, as she had done so many times as a child—and Penelo displayed considerable skill after a few minutes of Balthier's instruction, but whatever light had pierced Ashelia's mood, whatever affection Larsa had teased out of her heart, it all sank down and swirled away when they passed over the shadow of Nabudis.

The sun had slid slowly from its height as they flew away from it, the forests a radiant green below, the soft purple barriers of the mountains looming in the distance ahead and behind, and the darkness—the impenetrable haze of Mist—had marred the horizon like the scorch of black on Penelo's synthetic nethicite. Ashe had not seen it at first—Penelo had relinquished control of the ship to its captain, and as they watched her whine and prod and plead for another try, Ashe had had thought for a moment that she spied a slight glimmer of tears in Basch's eyes. He had looked away from the girl, seeking distraction out the wide windows of the cockpit, and his smile had immediately dropped—hardened.

Ashelia must have gasped then, for the rest of the room went silent.

"We won't go close," Balthier offered, though she wasn't sure if he meant it for her or for Fran.

They didn't need to go close. The cloud of Mist glimmered in the falling sunlight, the loam laid bare—all brown and black—in a ring around the basin, the trees flattened outward, all leaves blown from their branches. And the mountain—towering Mount Pegasse, rich blue and slate gray, peaked with shining ice—the mountain that once stood guard over the city birthed rubble into the crater from a fissure running halfway up its face. The crevasse splintered into cracks that ran still higher, a deep triangular gash rent into the stone that even two years after the blow continued to collapse, to slide into the dirt below.

They stared, Fran gripping her head, then shaking it, passing a long hand through her hair, and Ashe left the cockpit and still hadn't returned.

She sat on the edge of the bunk, turning the darksome chunk of nethicite over and over in her hands, searching the stone's depths, struggling to unravel its workings, its whispers. She had been leery of it—of course she had; the _Leviathan_ was no small menace—but the stone was drained, and the Dusk Shard charged, glutted. It was not the cry of the nethicite's power, not the promise that the Empire would at long last know remorse that bonded her so closely to the stone; it was the murmur of protection—salvation—the assurance that even if Archadia unleashed the Dusk Shard and a dozen others on Dalmasca, as least her people would not go out alone; at least she had this one chance at retribution, no matter how many generations down the line.

She stood up, the nethicite in one hand, but the door to the cabin opened before she could start toward it, Basch's shadow stretching across the floor and ending at her feet.

"You're awake," he said.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Balthier would like a word with you about it."

She tightened her mouth, exhaled through her nose—looked down and away. "I need a word with you first."

He cocked his head.

"Close the door," she added.

He did, flicking on the magicite lights as darkness enveloped the narrow room, and stepped toward her.

"Do you trust Larsa?" she asked.

He studied her a moment before speaking. "He's ten."

She glared.

"Not entirely," he added. "He's impressionable. I think he's trustworthy in his own right, but there's no telling what his brother has told him."

Her arms were folded, though she didn't remember moving them. She looked at her feet. "What about your brother?"

And Basch's eyes grew intense for a moment. "Larsa must never know about Nalbina."

"If what you say is true," she said, meeting his gaze, "then his bodyguard is a murderer. Why should he not know that?"

"Gabranth loves Larsa like a son," Basch sighed. "He would have done anything to maintain his position in his cortege."

"And for that you can forgive him?"

"I can try."

Any response she might offer would be shouted, so she bit her teeth down once more and glanced upward.

Basch spoke little of his life before Nabradia. She knew only from what Rasler had gathered that he had entered the Landisian army at an early age and had planned to remain a career soldier before Archadia's war. He served two years in the Landisian resistance, helping to foster its alliance with Nabradia, and then served another three years as an officer of the Nabradian army before being promoted to Rasler's security. Two years of this before Ashelia's father knighted him, along with the rest of Rasler's cortege, and he served the prince and princess both for the full six years of their marriage.

A list, she thought: all she knew about Basch could be distilled down to a list of accomplishments and their corresponding years. She knew Landisian culture valued the present—the language didn't even acknowledge a past tense—but she had admittedly thought of Basch as Landisian only rarely. Wherever he traveled, he learned the language and adopted the culture and left it at that with an organic and effortless ease, and at his back—always, whether he would speak of it or not—a country taken violently and lost completely, divided between Archadia and Rozarria, many of its citizens forced to swear fealty to the ruling crown or else face execution.

And Basch fought not for vengeance, but to prevent such a fate from befalling others—she had convinced herself of his selflessness before her father's murder, and convinced herself of his weakness afterward: desperation, exhaustion, surrender to the inevitable. And for two years, she had assuaged her grief with the knowledge that she knew the man who killed her father, that she knew why he had done it, why he had broken. But now he was a stranger, and her two-year journey toward closure had led her surely and grudgingly in the wrong direction, and she would have to work her way fully back through it before she could even reach her starting point, let alone begin again.

What existed in Basch that let him move on so calmly from the past? Why could she not learn it from him? Moments crept upon her when the envy grew almost unbearable, and she wondered—languished in the suspicion of it—if her anger for the ease of his forgiveness served only to mask her jealousy of the peace he affected after Archadia took his wife.

"How can you just never speak of her?" she asked him suddenly. "Doesn't it hurt?"

She realized her abruptness too late—thought for moment that she felt the Midlight Shard burn in her palm, but chalked it up to the heat of having held it so long—but Basch only gazed at her, eyes somber, mouth soft, ineffable as the trees or the wind, and at length he answered her in a low, wounded tone: "I died that day. Dwelling on it won't help me live again."

Her eyes fixed on him for a moment, less a glare than an inquiry, and she sat back down on the lowest bunk, arms folded over her stomach, hugging her slender frame. He had answered her in Dalmascan, and she had not before then realized that she had questioned him in Nabradian. She kept that language close to her heart, and had little control over it. "You really tried to save him?" she asked quietly.

"He ended up saving me," Basch replied.


	34. Chapter XXXIII

Quick reminder that I changed Al-Cid to Al-Mid, literally because I seem to be otherwise incapable of keep anything straight. Come on, there are a lot of characters in this thing, and I can't even remember names in real life!

 _XXXIV._

Mount Bur-Omisace stood amid the green expanse of the Golmore Jungle, accessible from Nabradia by a steep mountain pass and from Rozarria by a well-tread trail through the trees and up the mountain's mildest slant. Apart from these two paths, humans could only reach the summit via airship. Fran studied the cloud-shielded peak from the copilot's seat, the _Strahl_ hovering in the cover a lesser range along Nabradia's border. Two paths, and two only—because of the Viera.

They did not disturb the Jungle path—a beloved Gran Kiltias now six hundred years dead had negotiated the passage—but they guarded it viciously, and did not hesitate to slay any who strayed from it. Fran recalled vividly—mere decades from her blooming—an adventurer who had eluded them twice to pillage orchids from the forest before they fell upon him while he sat sketching a pair of okapis drinking from a pond. She and the other younglings had picked through his belongings, poured over his sketches, wrinkled their noses at the herbs he carried in a tiny round tin. The guards related the tale for years—the okapis raised their heads, flicked their ears, and continued drinking while they gathered up the body and buried it where it fell.

The poacher's charcoal still stained her fingers when Fran first asked Joté's permission to join the traders on their next journey up the mountain. They took her two days later, and she spoke with the humans there, her sisters stern at her sides as a Bhujerban showed her a trunk of magicite, a Rozarrian invited her to try on a filigree ring, its stone unlike any she had ever seen—all the greatest splendors of Ivalice, there in miniature atop a mountain. The traders brought mushrooms, fruits, weapons—humans lusted after Vieran steel with a passion she had always believed the smiths exaggerated—and they did their business with the humans and offered their prayers to the holy mountain, and then they took Francesca by the hand and led her back down to the Wood. There was a festival that night, and Fran had never danced so freely.

Years and years she had returned to the mountain, but had not visited it since leaving Eruyt—and now, aboard the _Strahl_ , a surge in her heart and a longing in her core, she studied the hovering specks amid the clouds—the flagship looming, dark, a shadow, the attendant vessels darting and swarming like flies around a corpse. Faint frequencies on the interceptors, Archadian in origin and military in nature: an entire fleet, looming in wait at the summit of the sacred mountain—pacifist territory, neutral shelter to political refugees. None had dared land—to occupy Bur-Omisace even peacefully would warrant outrage from every corner of Ivalice—but they would intercept any approach by air, and they had quartered off both paths that led to the summit by ground.

If it was sacrilege for outsiders to set foot in Eruyt, then what burning anathema was this? What blasphemy had Archadia deigned to commit?

The _Strahl_ came under a bit more scrutiny in most ports, as did every ship of anything approaching an Imperial design, but although it had never had much trouble with Imperial checkpoints, Balthier had refused to risk it—a missing prince and Resistance leader onboard:

"Suicide," he had said, and no one questioned him, Basch disappearing to wake the princess for further orders.

Larsa had asked about the ship's radar cloaking abilities, and then its speed, but Balthier had stood firm.

"You've done a lot of work on her," the boy noted, standing at the control panel between Balthier's seat and Fran's.

"Of course I have," Balthier replied. "I banged half the life out of her in Archades, and that pathetic little engine could barely get her off the ground. It wasn't really nethicite, was it?"

"No," he admitted, "just regular magicite. We did try, but there were deadlines and all."

Balthier grimaced. "I had to overhaul the whole thing. What was that monstrosity? Not even Fran could figure it out."

"He magnetized a piece of magicite and broke it in half," Larsa explained, "so each piece alternately transferred its energy to the other until they were separated."

Balthier raised an eyebrow. "Magicite that behaves like nethicite?"

"Something like that," Larsa confirmed with a nod. "The energy could only go between the rocks, though. It couldn't be discharged. He tried."

"I bet he did," Balthier groaned.

"It was your research, you know," Larsa went on. "He used your genetic magicite model to create artificial nethicite."

"Is that supposed to make me proud?"

Larsa studied him, eyes slow and searching, and Francesca again wondered at his age—at how big or how strong or how smart a human child was meant to be for so few years.

"Don't be so hard on him," the boy said, more an offer than a request, and Balthier rolled his eyes.

"Was I being hard on him or Venat?"

The cockpit door swung open behind them, and the princess entered with Basch at her back. She had fallen still as they neared the Necrohol, and retired to the cabin as she witnessed the nethicite's wrath scored into the mountainside, and Fran felt that she ought to have lingered—true, the vibrations of the Mist had filled Fran's senses, left her light-headed and heavy-hearted, but it had not been as searing as she recalled it, the life-force within the haze at last cycling—infinitesimally—back into the planet. Ashelia had missed it: the wisps of green against the solemn brown, the thick, snapping forest edging in on the decaying logs, all sprawled outward from the epicenter of the destruction. The Mist still hid the worst of the devastation—the emptiness, a whole city vaporized—but it was a cool Mist now, calmed from the rage of the uncounted millennia it was pent up, withheld from its purpose, easing into the soil and raising from it new life.

The princess had not seen this, or felt it, and her eyes were all the colder having flown so near the wound without bearing witness to its healing.

"Why have we stopped?" she asked, drawing to a halt behind Larsa, and his face revealed a bare moment of defeat when she spotted the ships out the window.

"We're picking up Imperial frequencies," Balthier told her. "The summit is swarmed and both roads are blockaded. They're probably putting up more checkpoints to find Larsa."

"On neutral territory?" Ashe asked.

"Neutrality makes it that much easier," he replied.

She shook her head. "You can get us through, can't you?"

His hands were lax at the controls, his eyes almost defiant on hers. "To be honest, Princess, I'm not so worried about us."

The princess subdued a huff. "Oh."

"Hey!" Penelo stepped in—she had taken up a study of the ship's operations from the seat behind Balthier. "If we can get through, I'm pretty sure a Rozarrian can."

"Especially if it's the Rozarrian I'm thinking of," Balthier mused.

"Al-Mid," said Larsa.

"I knew it."

Ashe shifted her weight, one hand gripping the back of Balthier's seat. "Should I have heard of him?"

And the boy hesitated, a smile playing behind his eyes, and Balthier spoke up: "He caused a bit of trouble last year—drag-racing Imperial ships with his cousins, or something."

"Perfect," Ashelia groaned.

"Don't worry," Larsa insisted. "He's known for his open-mindedness."

Balthier rolled his eyes. "That's not all he's known for."

The boy gave him a smirk. "Worried about your princess?"

" _My_ princess?" the pirate scoffed.

"What's there to worry about?" asked Ashe.

And Balthier glared at the fleet grouped over the mountain. "That bloody fleet, remember?"

Ashe sighed, arms folded, eyes out the window once more.

"I don't suppose Archadia's known for playing by the rules, huh?" Larsa added, smile dropping to an expression as sheepish as it was dejected.

She pursed her lips slightly. "Will Al-Mid be willing to risk all this?"

"I don't know," said Larsa. "I'm sure Cid would give him fair warning. Even if he doesn't show, the Gran Kiltias will still hear you."

"How do you propose I reach him?" Ashe growled.

And the boy looked away, then met her eyes again with a shrug. "If you hand me over, they might leave…"

"Might?"

Balthier leaned back and sighed. "Nothing personal, Larsa, but we can't be sure of exactly which Judges we're dealing with here. You can talk down Gabranth and Drace easily enough, and I can handle Zargabaath, but Bergan will take no quarter from either of us, and for all we know, Vayne himself could be up there."

Larsa's eyes dimmed, a grimness that settled on his face with an engulfing weight.

Francesca had watched a similar shadow overtake Joté's expression with each subsequent tale of the summit—as she described the wider and wider circuits she roamed, and what she saw there, and what loomed beyond. At the beginning, fresh into the world, Fran had made her living from the forests well to the west of Eruyt, their secrets still open to her even as the Green Word faded from her ears. The wild mushrooms in particular fetched a high price—tender delicacies common enough to those of Golmore, but apparently elusive to humans, and considered a high luxury. And when she had money, she had ventured into Rozarria, and then there was no going back, always a path beneath her feet, rarely with direction, never with an end.

She had always been led by the Word of the Wood, and passing beyond its branches took her also beyond its whispers, Reddas eventually offering her direction, Balthier eventually leading her forward, searching and seeing without destination. For two years, she was content to watch him, as peaceful as ever while putting something together or taking it apart, but he had taught her to forge onward, to decide and commit, and she did it now with a calmness that surprised her even as it soothed her:

"We could walk."

The heat of their eyes overtook her, the princess asking, slowly, "Off the path? Through the Golmore Jungle?"

Francesca nodded. "I could lead us."

The silence was worse than the stares, but Balthier broke it airily—the only human who really understood her, even if she didn't always understand him.

"Where do we land?"

"Near the coast," she told him. "East of the mountain."

He began to maneuver the ship downward to approach amid the low hills, guiding it toward the ocean and away from the Empire's gaze. "Hope you're all ready for a hike," he said.


	35. Chapter XXXIV

_XXXIV._

The breath of the sea was thick here—Ashe had felt the cool, dry breeze off the coast of Dalmasca, but there was a stickiness to the heat this close to Rozarria, an almost living presence that clung to her skin like the pushing and panting of a crowd. The mountain peaks stood sharp and white in the distance, the settlement atop Bur-Omisace wrapped in cloud. From below, she couldn't see the fleet.

Fran had greeted the beach with a deliberately blanked expression and eyes like garnets. Her skin shimmered in the sun, the glare illuminating the pearly effulgence of her high, velvety ears, and she held her head high, scanning the horizon—the vast, azure sea—before turning to the jungle that jumbled out into the sand from a cracking, murmuring depth too dark to pierce. Ashelia studied her, assuring herself that the Viera would heed Fran, that they revered the mountain and would welcome outsiders if they traveled with a native guide.

Fran stepped toward the jungle's edge and paused, then glanced to the others over her shoulder. "This will take a moment."

Ashe nodded, and Penelo spoke up:

"Can we play in the water?"

A moment of hesitation, the word _play_ catching the princess off-guard. Larsa stood at Penelo's side, his eyes pleading as much with Balthier as with Ashelia.

"Don't go out too far," Ashe said.

And Balthier added, to Larsa: "Stay where I can see you—should make things easier."

"For us both," the boy replied, darting after Penelo.

They bulled into the surf, soaked in seconds, Penelo's feet sweeping out from under her and dropping her into a foot of water. Larsa helped her up, both of them laughing, and for a moment she stood wobbling in the sun before another tide brought them both down. She was golden, Ashe thought—Penelo: the brilliant yellow hair and warm wood-toned skin of Dalmasca. Poems had been written about Dalmascans—blue eyes compared to oases amid amber sands—but Ashe herself bore only an approximation of the standard: pale eyes, light skin, hair darkened to a silvery brown by a pedigree of marriage treaties with other lands. She looked most Dalmascan in the sunlight.

She had to look away from Larsa—the strong, boxy jaw that ran in his family, the eerily calm seriousness that so often overcame his brother's expression—and she paused then, eyes stuck on a lone figure some distance away: Basch standing in the shade of a tree, watching the kids romp. There was a sadness there that made him look younger—something far away and achingly tender exposed from behind a skillful façade.

Ashe took a step forward and tripped—Balthier caught her by the hand.

"And here I thought sand was your element," he said.

She righted herself and snapped her hand away from his. "This isn't Dalmascan sand."

"Is there a difference?"

There was—the fine sand of the desert seemed akin to dust in comparison to the coarse bits of gravel beneath her feet. This sand didn't shift—it sunk, engulfed.

"Must you always be so difficult?" Ashe asked.

"Comes with the territory, so I'm told."

She huffed, glancing at Francesca, still standing at the jungle's edge. "I don't see why she even bothers to stick around."

He studied her for a moment, then said: "It's not like that."

And she met his eyes, and then turned, starting up the beach to a rock beneath an outcrop of palm trees. "Can we trust her to get us through the jungle?"

"You trusted her to get you through Raithwall's tomb," he replied, following her.

"What about Larsa?"

A salty breeze rustled the leaves above them as she drew herself up onto the rock, and he ran a hand through his hair. "I want to get rid of him."

"Get rid of him?" the princess asked.

"Well, I don't really mind him so much, but it's not smart, keeping him around with his brother on the loose."

The breeze ceased, and she leaned back on her wrists. "Vayne doesn't strike me as the type to take this sort of thing lightly."

"And Gramis won't be around to keep him in line much longer."

They both looked out to the sea, where Larsa and Penelo were splashing water in each other's faces.

"But Larsa isn't like his brother," said Ashe. "His influence might actually get us somewhere."

Balthier crossed his arms. "Placing an awful lot of trust in the little chap."

Raising an eyebrow: "You think I shouldn't?"

"I didn't say that."

"What do you get out of this?"

He looked at her, eyes vibrant with something too friendly to be suspicion. She hadn't intended the question to come out so bluntly, but there it was, and she glanced downward and then forward as she clarified:

"No pirate works without payment and no Archadian works for the Resistance."

"Is it really so hard for you to be optimistic?" he asked, and when she didn't answer, he added, "Ah. I suppose it is."

Azelas was what he meant. She was grateful he didn't say it.

He took a step back, a hand on his hip, eyes fixed on her. "Alright. You want me to level with you? I don't care about your money, and I don't care about your revolution. I care about your rock. You may not be able to admit it, but that thing is getting to you."

"Getting to me?" she replied, rising from her seat and matching his gaze. "I am not out to conquer all in my sight. I'm not Gramis. You said yourself that the nethicite is useless to me."

"And yet you still carry it around like it's going to save your soul."

"I keep it only to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Empire."

"If you really believe that it's useless to you, what makes you think it would be any danger to you?" Her eyes fell to the sand, and he continued: "You think there's still hope of recharging it—using it, or at the very least leaving it to your descendants to use."

Now she crossed her arms. "I would never burden my family with such a decision."

"Raithwall did."

And she turned, stepping to the edge of the shade. "He wanted to protect our house."

"Do you really think so?" Balthier asked, matching her retreat. "I think he was testing your house. I think he knew that the nethicite would destroy you if you used it—and I think he knew that anyone willing to use it would need to be destroyed."

She turned her face up as though inspecting the horizon for an incoming ship. "Then I'll destroy it."

"Easier said than done."

"Lusting for power, blinded by a rock…" She turned and met his eyes. "Is that how you see me?"

"No, but that's how I've seen others." And now he walked past her, into the sun, toward the shore.

"Who?" she asked.

"It's a long story."

"Make it short."

"Just don't give up, do you?" He cast her a sideward smirk as she followed at his side, passing onto the darkened sand near the waves. She mirrored it. "Very well, then," he said. "Where to begin? He wasn't obsessed with nethicite all his life, mind you—but for a decent part of it, from the very moment the damned rock was discovered. From then on, it was all he cared about, second to none—not even his family. Everything he did, he did to get closer to the nethicite, documenting it, breaking it down, trying to understand it and imitate it. He never quite got what he wanted out of it, but in the process he made everything from airships to artillery. He even made me a Judge."

"A Judge?"

"Not a very good one—which I imagine makes me one of the best. Nevertheless, it's all part of a time I'd rather forget. And thankfully, it didn't last long. I left the Judiciary—and him. The great Cidolfus Bunansa: Draklor Laboratory's very own Doctor Cid. He loved science more than anything—more than everything. Once his—once his wife died, he just…I suppose that's when he lost his heart to science—when he lost himself. I suppose that's when I lost my father."

Ashe looked to her feet, water pooling out of the sand around them.

"First it was just curiosity," he said, "and then it was hope. Now it's fear, right? Next comes pride, then arrogance, then ambition, and before long you've got voices in your head and no time for anything else. Please understand, Princess: if you love only one thing, you'll reject the love of all others, whether you intend it or not. Even if you truly mean to destroy the nethicite, who's to say you'll be able to when the time comes?"

She stepped toward him, but then halted, the toes of her boots licked with sea foam. "You can't base your whole world on one experience," she told him. "Where some may fail, others could just as easily triumph."

"Huh." He granted her a small smile. "There it is."

"What?"

"Optimism. Did it hurt?"

"Practice what you preach."

He seemed to look past her then, and after a moment, called out, "Larsa?"

She turned her gaze farther down the beach. The water lapped on in silence, no sign of Larsa or Penelo. Just as Ashe prepared to call out to him as well, his voice sounded from a short distance behind them:

"Up here!"

They turned, and he and Penelo appeared from behind a boulder in the shallows, climbing carefully, shells in their hands.

Penelo waved. "We're fine!"

"For the gods' sake," Balthier groaned.

Larsa laughed. "You wouldn't last ten minutes in my security."

And then Penelo stood upright atop the stone, eyes wide and focused on the jungle in the distance. "Whoa!"

They turned again. A veil of light pulsed over the border of trees, the thick, black-barked trunks wavering in funnels of Mist and fading away with it. The shaggy ropes of moss vanished, the bristling branches lifted, and a tropical brightness shone through, the trees smooth and tall, the ferns thick and vibrant. Francesca turned to face the others, and waved them forward.


	36. Chapter XXXV

_XXXV._

Perhaps he shouldn't have told her so much—she had an earnestness to her, a way of garnering trust, and he wondered now if it was deliberate, if his warning had only fueled her need to hold the stone close. She should know, of all people—she should know that nethicite was a trap, a curse; that nethicite could bring the world no balance and certainly no peace. But if the wasted years had taught Balthier anything about the damned rocks, it was that they craved their masters as ravenously as their masters craved them.

The jungle was humid and crazed with bird calls. Moist ferns carpeted the ground in closely clumped patches, and the soil was bright red, and soft. A more suitable place than most to abandon the stone—jostle against her and lift it and toss it, and she would never know what happened, and the Viera would spurn the thing, not even enough light from it to make a decent lamp. Or—

Or they would sell it: take it up the mountain and trade it for silver. So much for that plan.

Fran led the way with sure, delicate feet: her clawed toes gripped the soil—spongy, like cake—and negotiated roots and grasses with a levelness that didn't even disturb the butterflies in the brush. Birds and lizards and insects scattered when the humans followed after her. She had warned them to keep close to her, and told Balthier in a few wispy words of Vieran that they should keep Larsa visible at the edge of the group—a youngling would deter violence.

The trees seemed to rustle with the language, the words as much a part of the jungle as the vines or the flowers, and he hesitated to speak it back to her, the breezy consonants and lengthy vowels misshapen in his mouth, distorted all the more when spoken here in the cradle of their origin. He had made some pretense of her teaching him Vieran as payment when they first met—"I seem to be of considerably more use to you than you are to me," he had told her, leaning against the _Strahl_ —and it had given them the upper hand in plenty of tight situations since then: There was as much advantage in speaking a language no one else spoke as there was in speaking a language everyone else spoke. But the princess's eyes grew sharp whenever he and Fran strayed from the Dalmascan in which the group shared fluency, and it wasn't as though she had much affection for him to begin with.

Fran at last drew to a halt amid a cluster of thin saplings, straining her ears and running her eyes in an arc over their surroundings. "I can't—hear Her," she said at length, mouth soft.

"What?" Penelo asked.

"I—it's alright," she replied, continuing on. "I know the way."

The others looked to Balthier, and he shrugged and followed after her. He had never heard Fran's voice waver.

Thick leaves filtered the sun's rays this far in, a softening green light rounding the edges of every jutting stone along the banks of the stream they now followed. Shoots and branches reached out to them as they passed, delicate living limbs, curious and eager and fragrant; the roots of a tree rose up and arched over the water, the adjacent trunk several meters thick.

Francesca's eyes grew dark—her jaw set—as they crossed the stream. A translucent wall manifested before them at the other side: undulating light that sparked to life along the bank wherever they drew near. Fran laid a hand against it, the flickers pulsating outward from her palm. It was solid—impenetrable.

"What is it?" Penelo asked.

"The jungle denies us passage," she answered, hand dropping to her side.

Ashe leaned in, trying to meet Francesca's eyes. "What have we done?"

"We? Nothing."

"What?" Penelo pressed, but Fran had already turned and begun to walk downstream, the glimmering shield flaring and rippling beside her as she went.

She turned at a bend in the shield, rounding a large tree trunk and stepping into the brush. Balthier followed her closely, questioning her in Vieran:

"Making an appearance?"

"I am."

"I thought you'd left for good."

The others stuck close, halting at Francesca's side as another wall of shimmering energy swelled up into the canopy.

"Our choices are few," she went on, still in Vieran. "This is as much for you as it is for me."

"Oh?" Balthier asked as she laid a hand on the force field.

"You are ill at ease."

"Can you blame me?"

Suddenly, she withdrew her hand and turned to face him. "Collateral?" she asked.

He drew in a breath, but didn't recoil.

Ashe stepped in. "Is there any particular reason we are unwelcome in your conversation?"

Both pirates regarded her, Fran serene, unreadable, Balthier cocking an eyebrow, planting a fist on his hip. And then Fran faced the shield once more, tracing glyphs on it with her fingers. "We must go to Eruyt to seek permission," she explained in Dalmascan. "It is not far, but we may still be denied access to the mountain."

"Eruyt?" Basch asked.

"My home," said Fran. She completed the series of symbols and flattened her palm against the glowing surface, and all at once it evaporated, fizzling flecks of light flying around her and spiraling out of sight. "Humans are unwelcome in the village," she continued. "If we are turned away, we mustn't protest."

Larsa glanced up at her. "You don't want to do this?"

"It isn't about what I want," she said, and again took stride through the brush.

The light field coalesced behind them and faded.

The Mist thickened as their trek progressed, the very air swirling with glyphs and reflections, whispers of thought from every direction. Balthier thought he saw the princess reach for her sword—Fran had warned them all against it—but her hand instead rested against her tunic, against the lump of nethicite in the pocket at her hip.

Half an hour's walk brought them to a high gate built around the trees, finely wrought and tangled in blooming vines, sectioning off a gathering of earthen dwellings and well-groomed paths. The gate stood open, the air cool and sweet around it, but Francesca halted several yards away, eyes intent.

It took a moment of observation—humans' eyes were dull, as she had told Balthier before. Two guards, armed and glaring, sat posted in the trees overhead.

"Why are we stopping?" Penelo asked.

"It is holy ground," said Fran. "You mustn't go past the gate, understand? They will kill you."

Everyone nodded, Larsa and Penelo stepping closer together, and Fran continued:

"Wait here."

She strode forward, the guards descending with long, even strokes of their arms and legs, twisting around the trunks and hopping to the ground in silence. They were smooth creatures: dark skin, satin hair, eyes like jewels in firelight; they were ethereal—airy—long and deft and slender as swords. Fran addressed them in Vieran, and Balthier realized for the first time—fool that he was—that she had spoken it to him always at half pace. The syllables blurred as she spoke it with other natives—it sounded like a long breath; a sigh.

"What are they saying?" Basch asked Balthier.

"I don't know," he replied. "They're going too fast. Something about us. They don't like us—I got that much."

"Perfect," Penelo groaned.

"Alright," he went on. "They're getting someone. I think we're good."

"You think?" asked Ashe.

"You want to go ask them?" he shot back.

She rolled her eyes. She was cute when she did that—a child, almost.

Fran turned to the group and beckoned them forward with a nod, but as they approached the guards left, heading farther into the village, disappearing. Balthier had no doubt that several others watched unseen.

"They go to find Joté," Fran explained. "She can clear the path for us."

"You can't go in, either?" Penelo asked.

"I have no reason to," she answered.

Three younglings, all female, scampered down a path some distance away, the smallest stopping briefly to glance at the humans, perking her ears and crinkling her nose before one of the others dragged her out of sight. They did not wear much—any of them, the ornate armor of the guards modest only insofar as it was practical—and what they did wear was thin and flowing. The girls had rings of flowers around their ears.

"It's beautiful," Ashe observed.

Fran blinked in reply, staring silently into the distance.

When the guards returned—long legs stretching through the grasses, sheathed swords swaying with their steps—a third Viera strode between them, taller, ageless, and unarmed. Her hair flowed white behind her, panels of sheer fabric billowing about her legs, folded over a silver chain at her hips. Another stream of this silk crossed over her chest from around her neck and hung in a loose knot at her back, fluttering on a nearly imperceptible breeze, and a frail crown of silver twisted through her hair and across her brow.

She glared at Fran. "You must leave at once. It is not allowed for humans to walk on these grounds."

"They mean the Wood no harm," Fran defended, mirroring her use of Vieran. "I can keep them in line."

"The rules are not made without reason."

"You've told me this."

"Must you hear it again?"

The humans all shifted. None looked to Balthier for a translation, and he doubted they needed one. The guards kept their distance, eyes steady, fingers lax at their sides, ready in an instant to draw their weapons—each bore a sword on one side and a knife on the other, bows strung over their shoulders and arrows at their backs.

A flick in the greenery caught Balthier's attention: the three younglings who had spotted the humans earlier hid in the brush, the littlest one's ears peeking over the foliage before another pressed them down. A rustle amongst some ferns, a shimmer of light in the leaves above, and once in a while a flicking ear, visible but briefly in the distance—the Viera hid themselves well, but their curiosity got the better of them. It occurred to him that Fran had been aware of this—perhaps throughout their entire journey through the jungle.

"We seek passage to the mountain," she continued, still in Vieran.

"Use your unholy airships," Joté sneered, folding her delicate arms.

"We would if we could," said Fran. "Joté, you know I would not come here if it was not important."

"It must be very important indeed, for you to bring your war-hungry humans along."

She shook her head, tall ears swaying. "They are not like the others—they seek peace."

"Peace?" Joté scoffed.

"They are leaders of human countries. A meeting is to be held before the Gran Kiltias to settle their arguments…"

"Why should I believe such things?"

Penelo leaned over to Balthier. "Where are all the men?" she whispered.

"They don't need them," he answered quietly.

"Then how do they—Ow!"

Balthier elbowed her in the ribs.

Joté took notice, flashing them a stark glare, and somehow the two guards had bows in their hands, knocking arrows into the strings before Penelo even stilled. No longer quite the pure and reserved creatures of the forest, it seemed. But they eased without prompt, claws flexed in the loam, and lowered their weapons without a word. Joté returned her gaze to Fran.

"The Wood tells us about these humans. Can you not hear Her?"

Fran turned her eyes downward, and Joté continued:

"Your ears are dull from listening their harsh speech. Viera who have abandoned the Wood are Viera no longer."

Balthier folded his arms. "So you abandon them in turn?"

Joté raised an eyebrow. It was a difficult thing, perceiving when exactly Fran wanted his assistance—or intercession—but he had yet to misjudge it, and she did not appear to begrudge him this instance. He had spoken in Dalmascan—Fran had told him once that they had all the years of their long lives to learn human tongues and speak them on the mountain—and Joté, after a moment's consideration, answered him in the same language:

"We must live always with the Wood. So is the Green Word, and so is our law."

"The humans do not intend to break your laws," Fran insisted, speaking also in Dalmascan. "Why should we forsake them? Why not live together?"

"So you asked me fifty years ago," Joté replied. "The Wood has told us what these humans mean to you; what will you do when they are gone? You know you will out-live them. The Wood is eternal and unchanging—She shelters us from such heartache."

"It will be worth the time I have spent with them—the lessons I have learned from them."

"Nothing can be learned from lesser beings."

"Fran!"

Joté turned at the shout, white drapes billowing behind her, and the others scanned the thick wood for its origin. A younger Viera—no older than Penelo—appeared from the trunks and ferns as though they had groaned apart and borne her forth. She bounded toward Fran—no thought of the gates—and leaped into her arms.

"Mjrn!" Fran exclaimed—and laughed as she said it.


	37. Chapter XXXVI

_XXXVI._

Touching another Viera was different from touching a human—it was a wholeness, a singularity. Mjrn had grown taller since Fran last saw her, but the lily-softness of one fresh bloomed lingered on her skin, and her exuberance—fast-running pulse of youth—betrayed her among the adults.

Mjrn was speaking in Vieran, and it took Fran a moment to realize that she was answering her, telling her how tall she was, and how strong. The Wood rejoiced around them—she could not convey to her human companions that it was a living entity, more than a place—the air was cool this deep in, the Mist was calm. Fran thought she saw the ghost of a smile on Joté's face, but it vanished when Mjrn's inquiries fell into a gasp, and then silence. She was looking over Fran's shoulder—to the humans.

Fran assured her in Vieran that they meant no harm, but she only stepped back and met Fran's eyes, asking what was wrong.

"I am not staying," Fran told her in Dalmascan.

Mjrn held her hands tightly, mirroring the language with the distinct clarity of one still learning. "Why not?"

Fran hesitated, but Mjrn—quick girl—saw what she hoped to hide and turned to Joté. She, in turn, glanced downward.

"Joté?" Mjrn said, more a reprimand than a question.

"It is the Wood who creates the laws," she answered. "I merely enforce them."

"But our sister is back!" Mjrn cried. "Why should the Wood not rejoice?"

"That is above our reasoning," said Joté.

"We are born of the Wood!" she pressed. "We hear Her always, one with Her will. We should share the same reasoning!"

"Mjrn," Fran injected, "the Wood does not stretch on forever. Beyond the trees, there is nothing to hear. She is only a piece of Ivalice."

"Then why does She reject other pieces?" Mjrn snapped back.

Fran shook her head, Joté reciting the usual excuses she foisted upon Fran in her youth while Mjrn met them with still more fervor. Perhaps she had been wrong to bring them through here—the humans. The Mist illusion that transformed Golmore Jungle into a snapping, howling forest ran the full perimeter of the Wood, along every edge, up both sides of the cleared foot trail to the mountain, and had been renewed yearly—the full power of priestesses from all seven villages within—for eons before Fran ever walked the Wood. Fran had not lifted it—could not have hoped to—but only thinned it for a time to ease her companions' hearts. A human could step right off the path and into the forest and find themselves embraced by the jungle without resistance if they deigned risk what lied beyond. Such a fragile barrier—fear—yet so arresting, so effective. Perhaps she ought to have let it stand.

She was grateful for her language now, listening to Joté voice the insults her kind had for humans, even if rightfully. Regardless of the volume with which it was spoken, Vieran always weaved through the air like a whisper, and Fran hoped that Balthier would not hear. They had done more than enough to earn Joté's censure—even if she did not know the particulars, nearly every detail of their existence was a fine example of what was wrong with humans. And Fran knew well enough that the actions of humans were far-reaching and indiscriminate—all too often she had heard them lament the fate of Landis: no quarrel with Rozarria or Archadia, yet conquered all the same, ravaged and ruined and divided because of its bountiful crops, each empire striving to control the other's food supply.

Fran was about to interject—to make the same overtures of peace that humans always made throughout the blood-stained ages—when one of the humans did it for her:

"It will be war."

The breath went still between Mjrn and Joté, words dropped away on the breeze, and the pair of guards glared—she had heard the princess chance a step forward as she spoke.

"If we don't meet with our enemies," Ashe continued, "if this meeting doesn't happen, the country south of you will rise against the countries north and east and west of you, and you will be caught in the center of it all."

Joté studied her, and spoke with a scoff: "And you think this will be stemmed if your meeting does happen?"

Ashe shook her head. "The people who would stop us—who would use the fall of my country to see their own glory—they will call for battle and rally the people, and it will be unending war. They will not respect the rules of the jungle, or the rules of the mountain. Already they've sent their fleets into neutral territory. The machines of the Archadian Empire will never stop, and if you think you can remain in isolation simply because you do not care for what they do, you will wake up one morning to find them right here at your gate."

Fran stood very still, only her fingers flexing when Mjrn wrapped an arm around hers and gripped her hand.

Joté's voice was low: "I have lived a very long time, human. You are hardly the first to be so arrogant—to consider your life the virtue on which the world spins. We are not so wholly unaware of the world outside the Wood as you think, and life there does not change as much as you are desperate to believe. You humans come, you make noise, declare yourselves to be whatever you believe suits you best, and you go and are forgotten. This is the way it has always been—in your histories as well as ours. In the end, you are all but words written on the wind."

Ashelia looked away, and Joté turned to Fran, speaking still in Dalmascan: "Your presence here is blasphemy. You must go back the way you came and never return."

"That cannot be all!" Mjrn begged. "Ivalice is changing. How can the Viera stay and do nothing?"

"Ivalice is for the humans," Joté told her. "The Wood alone is for us."

Mjrn lurched forward, fists tight at her side. "You would have us just hide here in the trees! What if I go with Francesca? Will you forsake me, too?"

"I will not take you," Fran interjected.

The girl turned to face her, eyes wide.

"You must remain away from the humans," Fran went on. "Live together with the Wood. This is your way."

Mjrn stepped toward her. "Fran—"

"You mustn't be like me. I won my freedom, yet my past has been cut away forever. No longer can my ears hear the Green Word. Do you really want this solitude?"

"Sister…"

She shook her head. "No, Mjrn. Your other sisters remain to you, but you must forget me."

Mjrn gave her a hard, glistening stare, then told her quietly, in Vieran, "You are no better than Joté."

And she walked away, sheer wisps of fabric curling in the breeze behind her like a thick Mist. Fran closed her eyes, turned her face to the ground.

"I am sorry to make you do this," Joté told her in Vieran, shaking her head.

"If she goes against the laws of the Wood," Fran replied, "she will be no better than I am. It is better that I do this—better I than one who must uphold the laws herself."

The Mist at their feet swirled then, the vines on the gates writhing just faintly and the orchids climbing the nearby trees fluttering their petals in unison. Fran thought she heard a whisper there—felt it beneath her skin, a tremor in the rhythm of her heart—and she clutched at the soil beneath her feet with eager claws, drank that surge in and committed it to memory for fear that she would never taste it again.

Joté gazed at her, midnight blue eyes steady, certain. "The Wood says you have earned your passage," she said in Dalmascan. "Go straight to the mountain, and pass through on your return without delay. What the Wood tolerates, Eruyt does not—you are still unwelcome here."

"Thank you," Fran said with a nod. "We will go quickly."

She could feel the humans behind her release a unified breath, the very tension in their muscles tangible through the Wood's Mist, and Ashelia spoke again:

"We will never—I swear to you, I will never forget this."

"Of course you will." Joté did not even say it all that unkindly, something akin to pity in her gaze. "You humans—you destroy all that you touch, in search of some goal you cannot name, some place you cannot reach. All we can do is stay out of your way, and hope your time here will be as brief as you seem likely to make it."

The princess nodded, then turned as Fran passed to follow her away from the gate. The others took stride after her as well, but as she left the coolness of Eruyt—as the sensation of the Green Word drained from her limbs—she slowed to a halt, and looked back to Joté.

"The Wood…" she said, the Vieran at home on her tongue. "I fear She hates."

Joté paused, and replied in the same language. "She longs for you—for the child gone from under Her boughs."

"A pleasant lie," Fran whispered.

Joté shook her head. "She is jealous of the humans who have taken you."

"I am as them now, am I not?"

Joté gave her a slow stare, but said nothing.

Fran blinked, taking in a small breath and nodding once as she spoke: "Goodbye, Sister." And she turned fluidly, walking away with the bewildered humans at her heels, leaving Joté on the other side of the gates. Dozens of Viera abandoned their hiding places and neared their priestess's side, eyes tracing every step of the outsiders—silent to the humans, no doubt, though the whisk of their breath in the trees and the knolls had beat in Fran's ears for the whole discussion.

Fran strode smoothly at the head of the group, scarlet eyes fixed on the fern-laden distance. She could feel the warmth of Larsa's eyes upon her for several moments before he broke from the group and took up pace at her side.

"Fran, are you alright?"

She didn't look at him. "I will be."

He took her hand quickly and stopped her. "You're a good sister."

She paused for a moment, looking into his eyes, and then took her hand out of his and passed it over his hair. "Thank you."


	38. Chapter XXXVII

Lots of changes. Let's face it: this isn't really even a novelization anymore. Just me going crazy with an old game script.

 _XXXVII._

He had made too comforting a habit out of this—staring at Penelo. Basch watched her closely as she helped pack up the bivouac for what they all hoped would be the last time, binding poles into a bundle and laughing with Larsa as they stretched out the canvas together and stumbled through a disorganized attempt at rolling it. She hadn't noticed: oblivious to herself, just like—

"You think too hard."

Basch turned. The princess stood at his side. He shook his head faintly—just once—and said, "We should reach the summit before nightfall."

And she dropped it, led the group onward, but Basch knew better, knew this would do him no good—gazing at one girl while thinking of another. The wound had not healed—it cut as deeply as ever, and he had only denied himself the sting.

He tried not to keep too close to Ashelia as they continued up the rocky mountainside, but she had for the most part ceased her protest, venturing even to take a step closer to him when their path narrowed or veered too close to a chasm. He pretended not to notice, certain that she would prefer it so.

Balthier had furtively taken charge of Larsa's care in a similar fashion, always close at hand, though maintaining a fair enough distance to put off any comments. Once or twice—when the boy vaulted a rock over a steep ledge, or bounded too far ahead of the group with Penelo in chase—the pirate would shout out a summons disguised as a warning, drawing Larsa back to his side and pretending to ignore him once more.

They decided as a group to be circumspect with the prince's identity when they reached the settlement—Larsa had told them the story of Marquis Ondore's visit to Draklor Laboratories last year, when he suspected Halim first guessed his true parentage; he had told them he never thought it a very well-kept secret, or very difficult to decipher when given enough context. Indeed, Basch had unraveled the truth without Gabranth ever telling him explicitly, and they could not count on traders on the mountain to resist an easy ransom just because they came across the hostage on neutral territory.

"Hey, Basch?" the boy asked.

"Yes?" Basch answered.

"You speak Landisian, right?"

"Not as well as I used to."

The sun was just considering its twilight arc, shadowed behind wide, flat bands of clouds that covered the western sky over the lesser peaks of the mountain range. Dry snowflakes dusted the path before them, and they would thicken and widen as the night crept in.

Larsa questioned him on the meaning of a particularly foul Landisian word, and he had to bite back his shock. "Did Gabranth teach you that?"

"Not intentionally," said Larsa.

"With good reason."

"I see."

"Isn't that what you used to call Azelas?" Ashe interjected.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Basch replied.

"It's what Gabranth and Drace call Vayne when they think I'm not listening," added Larsa. And then: "You and Gabranth don't really get along, do you?"

"Not particularly," said Basch.

He looked up to Basch again, walking at his side, something hesitant in his stride, in his gaze. "I know it's none of my business, but if you don't mind, there's something I've always wanted to know…"

"What's that?"

"His real name." A minor pause as all eyes fell on the boy, but he ignored the attention with little effort and continued: "Judges are all given new names, right? I've tried everything to get it out of him, but he won't tell me."

"Then why should I?" asked Basch.

"Because you don't get along."

Basch hesitated. He didn't like to talk about Gabranth in past or present, but the memories persisted whether summoned up or bedded down.

 _Be careful._

 _I know what I'm doing._

His brother, always looking out for him, always telling him that whatever stupid thing he was doing was stupid, and then holding his tongue when Basch learned the hard way that he had been right all along. And Basch, always going off on his own, digging up more trouble, diving headlong in while his brother heaved a sigh and kept quiet. He had nearly forgotten the sensation—so many years believing Gabranth had fallen with Landis, and two more after them burdened with the weight of the truth. An unbearable tragedy: longing for the past over the present.

"His name is Noah," Basch said.

"Noah…" Larsa repeated. "Hm. I'll have to spring it on him next time he gets too cocky."

Basch laughed, and Larsa bounced slightly.

"Have you ever met anyone who could tell you two apart?"

"Just one."

"Really?"

He nodded. "She never told me how, but she did once tell me it was easy."

"Did you ever switch?" Penelo stepped in.

"All the time. And not always with each other's permission."

"I bet that made the army more trouble than it was worth," said Balthier.

"You have no idea," Basch replied.

"I always thought girls were the ones eager for trouble," said Ashe.

"You don't have any brothers?" Larsa asked.

"No," she said. "I had a friend, though, who was like one to me."

"Was?"

"He died fighting in the war."

"Oh. I'm sorry. It was the same for my older brothers." He turned his eyes toward the horizon. "Vayne says they knew how to keep things interesting."

Basch studied the path ahead, only half believing himself when he decided that it had to be the snow—it was all the snow and wind and rock that kept bringing him back to his homeland in thought and dream. Landis was primarily plains—freezing, wind-whipped, but blooming with orchards in the autumn—and it shared its mountains with Nabradia, the high and rolling land where he had spent more than a decade in Rasler's service. It had to be the snow—the snow, and Ashelia.

Like her, to call Rasler a friend, to compare him to a brother. He had been the sort that anyone would compare to a brother—even Basch suddenly finding himself in Gabranth's position, trying to reign the boy in, trying to protect him from his own mischievousness.

 _Be careful._

They both would have died if Rasler hadn't taken that hit—that accursed arrow, that killed him slowly, that offered just enough hope to intensify the pain of losing him. Basch only survived the Dawn Shard by dragging his prince away from the city; his life had only been spared by his attempt to save Rasler's. He, a knight, who had sworn to die in the prince's place if need be; it wasn't supposed to happen that way.

The clouds thickened steadily above them as dusk gave way to darkness, Penelo and Larsa dragging their feet and only perking when the open wooden gates came into view. The snow was high this far up, and much of the settlement had retired for the evening, huts glowing red through door cracks, wisps of smoke rising up from their roofs. The princess introduced herself to the watchers at the gate, and they welcomed the group, showing them to the refugee camp and offering them the bread and broth that they offered all visitors.

But the reception grew dim when they entered their pavilion. An old man sat nurturing a fire at the tent's center—the Gran Kiltias himself. He rose as they entered, and the woman who had escorted them from the gate bowed to him.

"Your Grace," she said.

He nodded to her. "Leave us." She did, and he ran his eyes over the group. "The Princess Ashelia?"

Ashe curtsied—Basch hadn't seen her do it in years. "Your Grace."

And now the old man smiled only faintly. "And the Prince Larsa."

Larsa returned the smile and bowed. "Your Grace."

"I am overjoyed to receive you here," the Gran Kiltias went on, "but I must ask if this afternoon's news has yet reached you?"

"News?" Ashe asked.

He exhaled, his mouth falling into a grim shape, and he again looked at Larsa. "Forgive me, Your Excellency…"


	39. Chapter XXXVIII

_XXXVIII._

The emperor was dead—about fifteen years too late, by Balthier's measure, but he wasn't about to complain. This talk of illness, however—he didn't entirely believe it. Factions in the Judiciary concerning the two princes seemed most likely. The Judges were without question the very lynchpin of House Solidor, if not the Empire itself, and though it was perfectly expected that one or two of them in a generation might try to slaughter the Imperial family and gain the throne, there was a wide and respectable chasm between civilized betrayal and utter anarchy. And Vayne would crush it—whatever it was: rebellion, treason, inconvenient questions—and would see himself crowned just as soon as he had his little brother at his side to appease the public at the ceremony.

The boy had barely spoken since hearing the news—two days now of sitting and staring and assuring anyone who asked that he was fine.

"Can't you talk to him or something?" Penelo had asked yesterday.

"Me?" Balthier replied. "What am I going to say?"

"I don't know. It's not like the rest of us have anything nice to say about the old bastard."

"And I do?"

Word of Al-Mid's arrival had at last roused the boy out of his daze, and he had insisted on venturing onto the snowy mountainside with the rescue team to investigate the crash site—just like a Rozarrian to crash his bloody ship onto neutral territory for peace talks—and Balthier could hardly turn down Larsa's ensuing proposition.

For two hours now, he'd flipped through the books in their tent while the princess slept. A weighty task to trust to Imperial skyscum, but Basch seemed to share his brother's keenness of sense: he read people well, and perceived more than he let on. Ashe seemed to perceive something unseen as well, the little muscles of her face and hands and throat working faintly as she slept, as though she could see the ghosts of an entire city hanging between them, and a million more lost in battle. Woven blankets piled around her, courtesy of the pacifist villagers who maintained the refugee settlement—who had offered them the same accommodations they offered all others who came their way, never asking why they had come or why they did not go elsewhere.

The world needed more like them, Balthier thought. For all of history—all of time—human ambition had always entailed disaster, and the only thing humans learned from disaster was how to improve upon it.

Ashe woke suddenly, bolting upright, and Balthier's hand went cold on the spine of an open history book. The princess leaned forward, knees rising up, elbows meeting them, and she drew her hands to her face. Balthier snapped the book shut, the sound of it drawing her eyes.

"Rise and shine, Princess."

She ran her hands through her hair, suppressing a groan. The drapes of the tent were flimsy, but shielded them well from the crisp wind. A fire crackled between them, streams of smoke drifting up through the circular hole in the roof, and Ashe's eyes cooled in the contrast of the blaze, a vibrant, turbulent blue against the livid orange that lit them.

"Shut up," she said.

"You won't make much of an alliance with that attitude."

"Where is everyone?"

"Seeing that Al-Mid settles in safely." He tossed the book back into the small curio where he found it. "Basch asked me to look after you."

The princess stared. "Basch entrusted my safety to you?"

"Everyone seems to think I'm good at this sort of thing," he replied with a shrug.

"I'm perfectly fine on my own, thank you."

"He said you'd say that."

"He said too much."

"He said you'd say that, too." And he nodded upward. "Half an Archadian fleet is right above us, Princess; for now, at least, you _do_ need a babysitter."

She rolled her eyes, and he continued:

"What were you dreaming about?"

"What?"

"You looked upset."

"Did I say anything?"

"No, but I wasn't about to wake you—might have lost a limb."

She sighed, whipping off the muddle of blankets and pulling on her boots. "What did you do?"

"What?" he asked.

"After you left."

"That must have been some dream."

And now she wrinkled her nose and began combing her fingers through her hair.

"I ran away," he went on. "What else? All that running and I got nowhere."

"You say that like it's all you've ever done."

"You're the one who faked suicide," he countered.

"Azelas came up with that," she replied. "And it worked, didn't it?"

"A little too well, I think. What's that got to do with your dream?"

She sighed. "How is it that sometimes you're so easily entertained, and others you find everything boring?"

He smiled. "How is it that sometimes you're so easily irritated, and others you find everything interesting?"

She groaned.

"Really," he went on, "you should see it coming by now."

"I should," she agreed. "Look. For what it's worth, I do mean to pay you eventually. It's just that the world is so difficult right now."

"You don't need to explain—"

"And I didn't like you because you're Archadian."

A pause—the heat of the fire too strong for just a moment—and he smiled again. "I'm glad."

"Why?"

" _Didn't_. That's past tense, right?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

"What did they call you?"

"What?"

"As a Judge."

"Nothing I'd repeat in front of a lady."

She glanced off to the side and pressed her lips together in an unsuccessful bid to conceal a smile. "I can't imagine you as a Judge."

"Neither could I."

"Do you know Basch's brother?"

Now he sobered a bit, though he didn't hesitate in his answer. "To an extent."

"What is he like?" Her eyes were hard, turned off to the side.

"You don't want to know that."

"I asked, didn't I?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then said: "He's exactly like Basch."

She replied with an expectant glare—an insult to her bodyguard, no doubt—but he did not waver:

"It's true. Of course, I haven't spoken to him in two years. I suppose people can change."

"And if they change in one way," she replied, "does that mean they can change back?"

"Look," Balthier groaned. "The man lost everything once; can't you forgive him for not wanting to lose it again?"

She folded her arms and glowered at him through the waning flames. "Can you forgive your father for his role in Nabudis?"

"Nabudis was an accident."

This struck her still. For a moment her eyes softened, giving way to a strangely misplaced hope that suited her unnervingly well, and she asked quietly, accusingly, "What do you mean?"

"One of the old bastard's experiments," he explained, letting his gaze drift to the smoldering coals before him. "Counter intelligence reported that Nabradia was on the verge of implementing a new sort of magicite. We knew it was nethicite—we'd all but discovered a sample of our own—but we couldn't have guessed it would be the Dawn Shard. He and Vayne watched aboard the flagship of the Fourth Fleet—probably got quite a kick out of it."

"And what? They just sent in an army to grab it and use it?"

"More or less. They certainly didn't know it was _that_ powerful. They had Zecht wipe out his own troops, too."

"Zecht?" she asked.

He shifted. "The Judge who led the attack. Cid told him what to look for and how to use it—for the 'good of posterity,' of course."

"Cid knows how to use it?"

"He's not going to tell you."

Her eyes seemed to sharpen, though she didn't miss a beat. "What about you?"

"You stand a better chance than I do," he growled.

"I mean do you know how to use it?"

"No." A glare, and then: "Honestly. No."

"Then what about Zecht?"

"Zecht is dead. And don't ask about Vayne."

Ashe paused then, staring first at Balthier and then slowly down into the embers at the base of the fire. Once they knew what the Dawn Shard was, they laid plans to seize the Dusk Shard, along with the city and country and citizenry surrounding it—he didn't need to tell her this.

"You see it now, don't you?" he asked. "It comes out of nowhere, I know, but once you start thinking about it, you can't stop. Well, that is to say you _can_ , but there's only one way to do that."

She gripped the fabric at her hip—her pocket: the Midlight Shard—eyes trained low, fading to gray.

Balthier released a sigh and met her gaze. "The choice is yours to make, but—please don't give your heart to a stone. You're too strong for that, Princess."

She sat in silence, and just when it seemed that she would speak, a few faint crunches sounded outside—footsteps in the snow. Larsa drew open the tent's entryway, letting a hazy strip of pale blue light race up the opposite wall.

"Balthier—" he said, and then, smiling at Ashelia: "Oh, good! You're awake."


	40. Chapter XXXIX

_XXXIX._

"Didn't I tell you I'd have her up in time?" Balthier asked.

"I wasn't entirely confident in your methods," Larsa replied.

Ashe rolled to her knees and loosened her hair from behind her ears. The boy hid his sorrow well—she could hear the loss in his tone, just a little bit lower now, the façade just a little bit frailer, the brightness gone from his smile.

"Fran could use your help with the repairs," he went on, and Balthier stood.

"I'm sure she could better use your help."

"I've got a war to stop."

"Brat," he mumbled in Archadian. Ashe studied him as he turned to leave—something more alive in him lately, his eyes somehow intensified before the fire, flecks of gold and auburn reflecting the flames. He didn't acknowledge the princess, but scruffed Larsa's hair on his way out of the tent.

The boy stepped closer. "The Gran Kiltias is ready to see us now," he said.

"Larsa—"

"I'm alright."

She shook her head. "We don't have to do this right now."

"I want to. This—makes me want to do it more."

She rose with a sigh, taking the thick jacket from a hook on one of the tent's poles and bundling it around herself. "And Al-Mid? He's alright?"

"Balthier told you about the crash landing?"

There was almost a falter there—something wobbling in his gaze, or his voice, or both; she wasn't sure. But she ignored it, and sensed his gratitude. "Only the highlights."

"It wasn't anything serious."

"I can't believe Basch trusted a pirate with me."

"It took some convincing."

"Balthier's good at that."

"From me, I mean."

She stared at him for a moment. "Oh."

And then he smiled, the shadow lifted if only for a moment, and she followed him out of the tent.

"Are you sure Al-Mid doesn't want to rest a bit before we begin?" she asked.

Larsa nodded. "I told him to take it easy, but it's no use. He's crashed a few ships in his day. He can handle it."

"I hope that's a good thing," Ashe replied.

The snow fell lazily over them—fat, broad flakes that swayed in downward arcs on the breeze, swirling occasionally into loose funnels, whirlpools whisking at their feet. The village was quiet, the war's victims busying themselves, children running in flocks. Eight-foot cairns stood at intervals between the wooden fences that cordoned off the area, and the high-steepled church at the settlement's center dominated the horizon, but the majority of the dwellings within the camp proved little more than thin-skinned pavilions, their entrances flapping in the frigid breeze.

Ashe hadn't seen snow in three years. Her only experience with it had been in Nabradia—in Nabudis—in the days she spent as a guest in Rasler's household as a child, and then in the years of her marriage. It had been snowing on the day she left it, a thick white cloak over her shoulders on the deck of the royal flagship as she watched the capital shrink away and blend into the pale haze.

"It'll be good to see the sun," Rasler had said, standing next to her, the hope of a smile playing at his mouth, waiting on her to bloom.

As though the sun never shone in Nabradia, she had thought in reply—as though it wasn't mere months away. But she had smiled all the same, the effort more effective than the act itself, and told him, "I can't tell if I'm going home or leaving it."

The emptiness tormented her all the more now that she could not name that memory of Nabudis her last—now that she had replaced it with the Necrohol. The emptiness was the worst part about Nabudis: no carnage, no detritus, only the void.

The leeriness of another's eyes on her drew her gaze downward, where Larsa studied her intently.

"Not a lot of snow in Dalmasca?" he asked.

She looked forward again. "No. We got some each winter in Nabradia, but I never had much time to enjoy it."

A pause fell between them then as she realized that he had questioned her in Archadian, and she had respond flawlessly in kind. The corner of his mouth turned up as he continued in Dalmascan:

"I had a feeling. Why keep it secret?"

She resisted a shrug. "It was no secret."

"Archadian lessons nearly all the way up this mountain, and you never once joined in."

"I like to keep a step ahead of Balthier," she admitted.

"I suppose that's understandable. Are you fluent? Apart from Archadian, Al-Mid only knows Rozarrian and Landisian."

"I'll manage," she replied.

He tried to smile. "Alright."

Sensing his disquiet and fearing that her disposition might continue to worsen it, she raised her head a bit higher and spoke: "Did you know Balthier when he was a Judge?"

"Of course," said Larsa. "He was one of the good ones. He used to have drinking contests with Zecht and Gabranth all the time."

"Why am I not surprised?" Ashe mused.

"Don't worry; he always lost."

"Ah."

A moment settled between them, and he quickly followed up: "Oh! No, no—you can trust him. He didn't like the Judiciary."

"No, it's not that," she assured him. "I suppose I'm more concerned with his family."

"What? His father? Barely half the rumors are true."

"What about his mother?"

He hesitated. "She was nice."

"Nice?"

"She really loved Cid."

"Did he love her?"

"Sometimes."

"I see."

Four thickly bundled children rushed across their path, and Ashe noted all the more how much older and graver Larsa seemed by comparison. They neared the cathedral now, the looming bell tower conferring a feeling of smallness on her that she wished would affect the boy at her side—she wanted him to be little again, to bounce and smile with no threat of fracture in his eyes. The village seemed too quiet at their backs.

"I'm sorry," she said at length. "It's not my place to ask these things."

"I don't mind."

He was looking up at her again; she could feel it.

They started carefully up the icy steps to the temple, and she continued. "It's rude to discuss people who aren't present."

"I suppose."

They came to a stop at the heavy wooden doors, stomping their feet on the stonework before them, snow falling from their boots in oval rings.

"Speaking of which," the boy went on, "have you ever dealt with Rozarrians before?"

"Rarely, and never on official business," she replied. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Well, they're very— _friendly_."

"Oh, really?"

"The emperor has two daughters about my age…"

"Ah."

He cast a slow glance on her, more uncertain than shy. "And Al-Mid is the closest to your age without a wife, so…"

She nodded. "Right. Thanks for the warning."


	41. Chapter XL

_XL._

The Gran Kiltias greeted them in the silent stone chamber beyond the foyer, the ceiling soaring overhead, tapestries fluttering at intervals between the windows. He led them through the great hall and past the altar at its far end, where several scrolled iron racks of candles radiated warmth and light.

Ashe was grateful that they all shared a language—that they would not have to burden the old man with simultaneously translating and mediating the same conversation—but she wished it might have been a more neutral one. The Archadian language was filled with gentle vowels and rounded suffixes, punctuated by a rolling flow that floated easily off even untrained tongues, but Ashe nevertheless felt that it lost much of its refinement beneath the weight of her Dalmascan accent.

A private chamber awaited them at the far end of the temple, sectioned off by locking doors, lit by a row of towering windows that lined the back wall. An expanse of mountains loomed beyond them, the great chasm the cathedral overlooked stretching out, gaping, an icy river trickling through its floor far down in the distance. Bread and water sat on a low table at the room's center, four chairs arranged around it, one of them turned slightly toward the blazing fireplace: a young man sat in it—thick black hair, dark olive skin—struggling against the chill. He rose as they entered, however, and greeted Larsa with a confident smile and a curvaceous Rozarrian accent:

"Ah, my little emperor-in-waiting! It's good to see you still in one piece."

"I do what I can," the boy replied with a smile, mirroring the Archadian with which he was addressed. He gestured to Ashe. "This is Princess Ashelia."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said in perfect Archadian, extending her hand.

He took it in both of his and kissed it. "Ah, I see it is true what they say—stunning is Dalmasca's desert bloom!"

Larsa rolled his eyes. "This is Al-Mid, heir to the throne of Rozarria."

"We could do this later if you'd like some time to settle in," Ashelia told Al-Mid, slipping her fingers out of his. "I understand you've suffered a trying arrival."

"For some men, yes," he said, "but I have grown accustomed to such difficulties—you could even say I crave them."

She leaned back, nodding slowly. "Alright then."

"So where to begin?" the Gran Kiltias continued. He gestured to the chairs, seating himself in one as he spoke. "There are many issues at hand, but most cannot be properly addressed until those that have instigated them are laid to rest."

Larsa nodded, taking a seat. "We can't hope to convince our countries to work out their differences until we're all certain no violence will come of it."

Al-Mid pulled a chair out for Ashe, and she granted him a small, tight smile as she sat. "But none of us have the power to control that," she said.

"Certainly, we all have charm," he suggested, dropping loosely beside her. "Lord Larsa has convinced us to treat—and far from the warmth of our homes, no less."

"My brother is immune to me," Larsa replied.

"Indeed," the Gran Kiltias added. "Here we have three prominent players in this war, but the fact of the matter is that neither Al-Mid nor Larsa may exercise any power over their empires. If any leading steps are to be taken in the way of peace, they must begin with the Lady Ashelia, Queen of Dalmasca by blood, and Nabradia by marriage."

Ashe shook her head faintly. "My inheritance is of little use without proof that I am entitled to it," she insisted. "I feel fairly confident that my people will accept me without much convincing, but Dalmasca is an Archadian territory now. I need Lord Vayne's recognition if I am to accomplish anything."

"And you cannot hope to attain it given the hatred your citizens hold for him," the Gran Kiltias replied.

"Much of the Resistance respects me," she went on, "but they are not keen on forgiveness where the Empire is concerned. I can't say for certain they would even consider it."

"Even if they did," added Larsa, "Vayne wouldn't believe it for a second. He knows his power makes him a target. At the very least, he won't release Dalmasca without compensation."

"An alliance…" Ashe said quietly.

Larsa nodded. "You know it's the only way."

"My people won't stand for it."

"Neither will mine. Luckily, our countries have a common fear."

"Rozarria."

Al-Mid grinned. "Always glad to be of service."

"In this case," said Larsa, "we may just need you to sit back and do nothing."

"The conquered lands make it too chancy for Rozarria to risk open war on Archadia," Al-Mid insisted. "If Lord Vayne were to give them up, our powers would be practically equal."

"That's the problem," said Ashe. "If Archadia releases Dalmasca, can we trust Rozarria to stay away from it?"

"That would depend," Al-Mid answered slowly, leaning in, elbows on his knees. "I cannot say for sure what my father would do, but I doubt he would turn hostile on a country he could just as easily make into an ally."

"Vayne will see that coming," said Larsa.

"If Archadia offered Dalmasca protection from Rozarria," said Ashe, "I would agree not to ally with them."

"My father wouldn't take that well," replied Al-Mid, "but he wouldn't be stupid enough to attack."

"But I would also need rights to Nabradia," Ashe went on, "and I have nothing to offer in return for it."

Larsa shook his head. "If you gave the Nabradians a choice between freedom and occupation, there's no way you'd be able to feed and house them all."

"I can't just abandon them," Ashe insisted. "I barely hold their loyalty as it is."

"I know," Larsa conceded, "but there's no way Vayne will just hand over two countries he's worked so hard to conquer."

"You forget the people of Landis," the Gran Kiltias interjected. "There have been uprisings enough in their lands—Archadian and Rozarrian occupied."

"The Landisian Resistance in Rozarria hasn't made a strike in years," said Al-Mid. "Many of them serve in our army."

"They've made strikes against Archadia," Larsa pointed out, his tone flat. "With Rozarrian backing, by some accounts."

Al-Mid leaned back in his chair once more. "Not all accounts are to be believed. Were Landis to be liberated, it would have no government to speak of. Its people are better off under Imperial rule."

"Try telling them that," said Ashe. "And Dalmasca has had overtures from Rozarria as well—before and during the occupation."

Al-Mid smirked, but the Gran Kiltias spoke for him: "Then we can agree that negotiations must be made openly—that the subterfuge must stop."

"Apart from the subterfuge in which we are engaging right now, you mean?" asked Al-Mid.

"Naturally, apart from this," the old man replied with a laugh. "But it is no secret that Marquis Ondore leads the Resistance, and that he has united its factions under a single banner. If conflict is to be averted, it must be the emperors and the marquis at this table."

Al-Mid let out a single, barking laugh. "My father would sooner war with Vayne than speak with him."

Larsa shook his head. "But if we can just get them to recognize Ashelia as rightful royalty—"

"They'll kill her and fight over her land." A pause ensued, and Al-Mid looked to Ashe. "Apologies."

"It's true," she replied.

"The point is," he went on, "my father may be convinced to back her if he knows it will whittle away Archadia's power, but Vayne has no reason to recognize her, and he won't unless she gains some leverage to use against him."

"That would just provoke him," Larsa insisted.

"Look," Al-Mid explained. "Let us suppose we approach the Empire with a peaceful resolution. The late Emperor Gramis might have lent us his ear, but we are dealing with Vayne. Should the princess return, he would claim her an imposter—all to tempt the Resistance into battle. My father would jump to support the marquis—he would say he's defending the occupied, or some such nonsense—and then it would be all-out war between our lands.

"Now, the occupied territories might join Rozarria while the chance is upon them, or they could just as well band together into their own Empire under Lady Ashelia. Either way, the people of Ivalice will rip each other to shreds. Vayne wants this war—that much is certain. And as our ill luck would have it, the man is a military genius."

Ashe hung her head with a sigh. "Perhaps I was better off in hiding."

"Lord Vayne knows you live," said the Gran Kiltias, "and it is only a matter of time before he exposes you by one method or another. If this war is indeed inevitable, then we must focus our energies ensuring that the fewest possible lives are lost in its course."

"You mean we have to turn everyone against Archadia," Larsa concluded softly.

"It seems to be the only way," answered Al-Mid.

"But…" Ashe braced herself momentarily. "Mass rebellion through the occupied territories, on top of Rozarrian invasion? Must we really be so harsh?"

"I thought Archadia took everything from you," Al-Mid replied. "Most in your position have no definition of 'harsh' when it comes to the Empire."

"I just don't believe in using unnecessary force," she defended.

"Unnecessary?" he scoffed. "Clearly, you do not know the Solidors!"

Larsa cringed, clenching his jaw as Al-Mid went on:

"You may have taken down the Eighth Fleet, but that was no more than a drop in the ocean! According to our latest reports, the Western Armada prepares for war—under Vayne's command, no less—and the newly formed Twelfth Fleet has already been deployed. The Imperial First Fleet stands in waiting and should be underway as soon as the _Odin's_ refit is complete. The Fourth Fleet is right above us, of course, thanks to His Itsy-Bitsy Excellency—" Larsa rolled his eyes. "—and the Second Kerwon Expeditionary Force is being called in to replace the missing Eighth, so there will be no gaps. The largest assembly ever seen!"

"And then the nethicite," Ashe added distantly.

"We will need every bit of force at our disposal to beat Emperor Vayne into submission," Al-Mid insisted.

Ashe folded her arms, resting her eyes on Larsa, small and drained and cowed by the truth of every word. She shook her head. "No."

"No?" Al-Mid asked.

"I won't lead my people to war until every other path has been blocked."

"Princess—"

"We've been through enough in the last decade," she insisted. "I'd be failing them if I simply pushed them back into battle." She sensed something like thanks in Larsa's gaze, and continued: "There are really only three people to concern ourselves with, right? The emperors and Marquis Ondore. They're both waiting for him to attack. If we convince all three of them there will be no attack, they may be willing to meet."

"They are always welcome here," the Gran Kiltias added with a nod.

"I know I can convince the marquis to reconsider," she explained. "All you two would have to do is soften the emperors up a bit—get them to think it over."

"Convince them a treaty is the smart way out?" Larsa stepped in.

"Or at the very least," said Al-Mid, "the safe way." He ran a hand through his hair and flashed a smirk at the princess "I must say, I didn't think you had it in you."

"He doesn't think anybody has it in them," Larsa added.

"So…" Al-Mid went on. "I'll deal with my father, Larsa will deal with his brother, and our dear lady will deal with her uncle. But what are we to do from there? Just cooling their tempers will not be enough."

"We can't plan that far ahead," said Larsa. "There's no telling how effective any of us will be."

"I don't even know where the marquis is," Ashe added, "much less how willing he'll be to meet with me should I find him."

"Then shall we reconvene?" asked Al-Mid. "Some time from now, of course. I imagine he won't be easy to track down."

"I would appreciate it," said Ashe. "But where would we go? It was difficult enough getting here without being captured."

"No kidding!" said Al-Mid. "Why don't you come to Rozarria? I'm sure a native of the desert will find our weather far more comfortable than this smothering white misery."

"Thanks for your concern, but I doubt your people would welcome Larsa."

"And the same could be said of Dalmasca, I suppose."

"And Nabradia and Landis."

"And Bhujerba is now filled with Imperials—enough to run us both down easily."

At last Larsa spoke up: "How about Archades?"

The suggestion earned him two disbelieving glares, and Al-Mid at last cracked a smile and said, "Cute."

"Larsa," Ashelia added, "you know that would be suicide."

He shook his head. "Not in the city—the port at Balfonheim, about a mile east. Most of the navy is stationed at the western border."

"'Most' is still risky," Ashe insisted.

"Balfonheim is overrun with pirates," he replied.

"You're just full of fantastic ideas, aren't you," Al-Mid groaned.

"No, really," the boy went on. "It's—it's hard to explain. They pay a percentage of their—'profits' to Vayne, and he pretends they aren't there."

"Vayne is being bribed by pirates?" the princess asked.

"He likes having friends in low places. The money funds Doctor Cid's research, and Draklor is supplied through the port. Besides, getting to Balfonheim will be far less dangerous than getting here."

"For me, perhaps," Al-Mid replied, "but surely you would not put the life of our princess in peril."

Larsa turned to Ashe. "Balthier can get you there."

Her tone was flat: "I figured."

"Tell him I'll pay for it—he'll enjoy that too much to turn you down."

"No doubt," she continued. "But there's no telling how safe we'll be once we get there. There may be no soldiers at our heels, but if it's truly overrun, who's to say we won't at the very least have to suffer eavesdroppers?"

"Have you ever heard of Reddas Montblanc?"

"Should I have?"

Al-Mid's eyes lit, and he spoke with a smile. "The Pirate King?"

"That's him," said Larsa. "He'll keep us safe. He can't afford not to."

More pirates, Ashe thought, but did not dwell on the indignity of it, visions of her father in his final days chasing all pride away. He had burned the single letter from Ondore, a simple missive of condolence on the surface—for the loss of a son-in-law—but coded with urgency, pleading with him to side with Rozarria, to see reason, to take up arms. There were many among his advisers who were willing to rally, but Rozarria committed to nothing in those days, and Archadia had offered a treaty.

Ashe had warned him against it, railing that blood would be shed even in surrender—that there was no reason to believe in mercy from the Empire—but he had insisted calmly that she was mad with grief.

"Better to ally with an enemy who promises peace than one who promises war," he had told her

Ondore had been too clever to call him a traitor to his own throne, and Ashe had been too cowardly, and now he was dead, and Ashe and Ondore both sought the recklessness her father had refused. Rozarria was a last resort, she told herself; she would take pirates over war, and would take them gladly.


	42. Chapter XLI

I decided to throw out an early update because I'll be out of town next weekend. Am I the only one who hates the holidays?

 _XLI._

The sky had just begun to darken when Ashe stepped out of the temple between two princes. Balthier and Penelo stood at the base of the stone stairs with two of Al-Mid's bodyguards, discussing the state of the stolen ship they had been repairing, which Balthier insisted was ready to fly despite the pile of discarded parts he had left behind.

"Dead weight," he was insisting. "It'll go faster without it."

The Rozarrians did not look convinced.

"Is it over?" Penelo asked, blue eyes bright and focused on Larsa.

"For now," he answered, easing down the icy steps.

"We reconvene in three weeks," Al-Mid added.

And Ashelia finished: "In Archadia."

Balthier met her gaze for a moment before folding his arms. "Quite the case of wanderlust you've developed, Highness."

"I'm sure you're up to the challenge," she replied.

Al-Mid's hand had somehow found its way around hers as she descended the steps, and she slipped it away as her boots hit the ground. "If it would ease Your Highness's journey," he offered, "I could arrange the acquisition of a private ship."

"But who would fix it after she crashes it?" Balthier interjected.

Ashe bit back a smirk, struggling to soften it into a smile. "Thank you," she told Al-Mid, "but I have all the help I need."

"If you insist," he replied, then turned to his guards and asked in Rozarrian if the repairs were finished. Their response was a mangled flurry that brought a grin to Larsa's face—the first Ashe had seen since he learned of his father's death.

"I'll go with you," the boy offered.

"Me, too," said Penelo. "Make sure nobody ends up dead."

Al-Mid bowed to the princess. "Well then, my lady. Until we meet again."

"I look forward to it," she said with a nod. "Good luck."

"To you as well." And then—stepping nearer, and nodding to Balthier: "And watch this one. I know that look."

Balthier cocked an eyebrow and glared at the prince as he followed the others away from the cathedral.

The silence of the snow enrobed Ashe, and she bent to scoop some into her hands as she drew near Balthier's side, mashing it into a ball and taking a bite.

"You're not going with them?" she asked.

"Rozarrians have no imagination when it comes to mechanics."

"Hm." She took another bite of snow, and he turned to face her, expression unchanged. She shrugged. "I haven't spent my entire life in the desert."

And now he tilted his head in a single, sideways nod. "Fair enough."

He took a slow stride toward the low wooden railing that ran along the edge of the ravine. The temple stood at the highest point of the cliff, but the jagged slope below—scarcely a meter beyond the fence—still glinted against the moonlight down to unfathomable depths. Members of the city watch milled about lighting torches at the posts, and Ashe followed Balthier towards one, feeling suddenly that the warm gold of her skin looked out of place against snow. Rasler had once told her that the cool tones of Nabradian winters vivified her eyes, but she had been homesick, and he had been kind, and she had never thought much more of it than that.

"So why three weeks?" Balthier asked, leaning against the wooden railing. "Vayne could very well have us all in our graves by then."

"I need to track down the marquis," she said.

His hands hung over the railing, clasped together while his elbows supported his weight. Ashe frowned, clapping the last crystals of snow from her palms, and spoke again: "Don't lean on that. You scare me…"

He pushed off the railing obediently, and as his hands parted, the gleam of silver pierced the firelight. Her eyes fixed on it—her wedding ring, bright in his grasp.

"I would've thought a royal wedding ring to be far more impressive than this," he remarked, holding it up.

"Aren't you the one who said value is relative?" she asked back, breaking her gaze and folding her arms.

"What was it? Five years?"

"Six."

"Six years of marriage, and no children."

She uncrossed her arms and balled her freezing fingers into fists. "You ass."

The insinuation was nothing new—at times, it seemed as though Basch and Azelas were the only ones who never questioned it—but now, with Rasler dead, it carried a greater weight, a deeper ache. She turned away from him.

"It's not your fault he went to Nabudis," Balthier continued, and she realized she was walking, and he was following her.

"I know that," she growled. "I told him not to go."

"I'm sure you did. I'm saying it's not your fault."

Her feet hesitated in the snow, Balthier halting at her side. Night had begun to fall, and with it a deepening chill that prompted her to fold her arms once more, to grip herself as though it might provide her some security against this onslaught. She had walked along the plunging ravine, no thought of turning toward the village, which emitted a tender glow as its inhabitants fed their fires.

Balthier spoke again: "I can tell you loved him."

But she shook her head. "Not in the way I should have. We grew up together. He was a good person. That's not love."

"Well, it certainly came with all the same drawbacks." He held the ring up once more. "You look at this thing the same way you look at that rock."

She started walking again.

"This isn't about justice for you, Princess," he called from behind her. "It's about revenge."

And she spun to face him. "So what if it is? The Empire is certainly deserving."

"A lot of people are deserving, but that doesn't give you the right to deal out punishment as you see fit."

"I am royalty," she insisted. "I didn't ask to be, but I am. I am the leader of a country that has bled for its independence in every way and lost it all the same. It is my burden and my duty to give my people justice, and if that entails my own revenge, then I will not be made a criminal for seeking it."

Balthier held the ring out to her. "Throw it away."

The silence seemed dark—opaque—the snow muffling any sense of echo from the village or the mountains. Her eyes were firm on his, but she did not speak.

"Go on," he continued, seizing her hand and placing the ring in it, curling her fingers closed. "Toss it."

She studied him a moment more. "No."

And he placed both hands on her fist and guided it out over the railing, over the edge of the rock chasm. "Just let go," he said.

She stepped closer, stomach against the fence, leaning forward as his hands left hers. The moonlight lit jagged angles in the canyon, a steep cascade of snow that broke in sheets down the rock walls. She gripped the rail, and focused her eyes on her fist, the sky and the mountains and the pirate at her side blurring into a black-edged fog. And then she dropped her arm to her side, and stepped back.

She unrolled her hand, the ring hot on her palm.

"I'm not as strong as you want me to be," she said, her eyes on her feet.

"Maybe not yet," he replied, taking it from her once more. "Rasler will be safe with me until you are." A pause, and he dropped the ring into his pocket and started toward the village. "Come on. You belong someplace warm."


	43. Chapter XLII

_XLII._

Gabranth wasn't fond of airships—a rare few of them drifted about Landis, whose ground troops were unmatched and more than enough to defend the deep woods and small towns throughout the countryside. He was bred of grass and hills and trees, entirely too heavy on the bridge of the Alexander, longing for the ground below and knowing that it would be outrage to set foot on it.

If Larsa was here, he was smart. Any attempt to intervene—by Rozarria, by Archadia, by any of his friends or enemies—any interference on the holy mountain would spark an international incident. But he could only get away with it for so long. For the most part, Larsa knew his value, and while he often underestimated his vulnerability, he was far from reckless. Bergan was on the brink—even posting the fleet at a hover so near to the village drew criticism abroad, and with the Resistance in the wind and Rozarria eager to encroach on the conquered territories, this stalemate risked collapse with every hour that passed. Larsa needed to come home.

Truthfully, Gabranth was grateful the boy had escaped—terrified, to be sure, but there was a relief in it, a distance between Larsa and his brother that would protect him better than Gabranth or any other Judge could. But Vayne was irate—beside himself with rage or worry or something worse, no matter how calm the façade he built up. Even Bergan had councelled him against announcing Gramis's death before Larsa returned—"That's not the way to bring him home, Your Excellency. You cannot blindside him when he is already vulnerable."—and Zargabaath had gone so far as to point out that Larsa's absence would be noticed at the funeral were it to commence without him, but Vayne would not be swayed.

Working with Bergan had not been Gabranth's first choice; he had put pressure on Cid to no avail, and then searched through Rabanastre for any lead on this new friend—Penelo—only to come up empty and turn his sights on Balfonheim. Reddas, for all his troubles, had a permanent soft spot for Larsa, and suggested that if Cid was indeed false, his son might prove a thread worth pulling. Doubtful, Gabranth had thought, until the old pirate pointed out that Balthier was traveling with the expatriate princess of Dalmasca.

It seemed a ridiculous connection at first—all Ashelia and Larsa had in common was that their bodyguards were brothers—but with all that had happened—in Rabanastre, in Bhujerba, in Archades—the undercurrent seemed to shift into a slow but razor-edged focus. Children Larsa's age grew a lot in a month's time, but something more than mere time had overtaken the boy while Gabranth was away. It made sense now: his seriousness despite his joy in Rabanastre, his sudden turn from science to politics as they returned to Archades. It would be unwise to confront the princess—with Basch free, she no doubt knew of Gabranth's complicity in her father's murder now—but he could not leave Larsa to her manipulation, and if this was a duel she believed she was owed, it would be dishonorable not to oblige her.

Shaking down the port would prove fruitless, Reddas had advised: as with every other even modestly-sized city in Archadia, half the population of Balfonheim knew of Balthier and had a score to settle.

"Bergan will be your best bet," he mused. "And should you provide some advanced notice of his arrival, Balthier may repay the kindness."

Bergan had been incensed, of course: Balthier, the traitor, whom Bergan had called spoiled and indulgent even while he wore the armor—Balthier, looking after Lord Larsa? He had set out at Gabranth's side immediately.

"Of course he would fly for the insurgence," Bergan growled now, steel gaze looming heavily over the distant settlement.

Five expansive windows lined the front of the _Alexander_ , each curving under to reveal a bit of the land that passed beneath it as it flew. Bergan stood at the edge of the curvature, plated boots toeing the glass, the snow drifting around his silhouette and then swirling frantically as the draft of the engines caught it.

Gabranth stepped up to him. "We mustn't stay here."

"We've broken no treaties."

"They will call it intimidation."

"They will be right."

Gabranth sighed—inaudible behind the helm—and some part of him grasped at the image of Larsa when he had last seen him in the library, only to recoil at the image of Vayne, when he had last seen him in the throne room. The very aura of their father, whether they took pride in it or not—and Larsa, so small, already a sense of power and dignity, shoulders braced to bear the great weight of his family's name. It would serve him well, to learn more of the world and his place in it, but if he fostered some tie with the insurgence, Rozarria would not be long in pouncing: they were a warm and smiling people who took great pains with their hospitality—a point of pride and one of the reasons they were so successful in trade—and Larsa, always so eager to make friends—

"If they object," Bergan went on, "then they ought to reconsider withholding the emperor's heir from him."

"Bur-Omisace has no paling," Gabranth replied. "Airships pose a serious threat to them."

"I'm well aware."

"They are pacifists, Bergan. There will be consequences."

"Our agreement with Bur-Omisace is nothing more than an expectation of obedience without occupation. If they know that scrap of gutter churl has Larsa—if they are harboring them, harboring a fugitive who fancies herself a princess—then that agreement is nullified. You more than any of us are tasked with ensuring his safety—no matter the cost. You suggested coming here in the first place."

Gabranth looked away, studying a pair of fighter ships drifting across the windows on patrol—sleek, gleaming, scarlet on ivory. "I had hoped for a bit more subtlety."

He heard the stupidity of it the moment he spoke it: Subtlety? Bergan? Bergan never used diplomacy where a threat would be stronger, never used words where a sword would be quicker. It was more than ego; it was long-built experience, and a surety of method that pervaded the Empire and kept its fist clenched around three conquered territories and all the people within them. If this mountain stood but a little higher, he would cut the gods from their heaven.

He said as much now, but Gabranth hardly listened. He didn't trust Bergan, and Bergan didn't trust him—the man was smart, if nothing else: more than enough intelligence to earn his position, and just enough sycophancy to secure it. Gabranth fell back on numbness, as he had for more than a decade now, and all the moreso in the two years he held a sword of the Old Order in secret, and more still since he saw it returned to its owner.

It was grim, that business at Nalbina: it was not a matter of apologizing—words would not fix this—and Gabranth had never felt deserving of forgiveness, or indeed even worthy of his brother's attention, and with all that he felt, he had become certain that there was nothing he needed to hear and even less he needed to say. Words fell pale in the light of actions, and he had none of those to offer. Gabranth believed he was ruthless—a traitor—somehow not as pure as his brother, and thus left behind on purpose to trade his honor for some semblance of freedom, unfit for those greater ideals even as he despised them. It was easy to take pride in surviving, and yet loathe it at the same time. Hate was a complicated machine.

Perhaps it was happiness that dogged him—all this wretchedness borne not of shame for turning but of guilt for enjoying the turn. A few years of grueling military service and then, somehow, an honor envied by even the highest-born and highest-ranking Judges: the emperor's own son, the joy of the palace, and Drace—most feared and respected—not only approving the promotion but _suggesting_ it.

"He likes you," she had told him. "That doesn't mean anyone else does, but no one else matters."

There was a bite to the memory, now—as there was to most memories. Drace, tall, stern, with an oddly imperious grace: always the one to chastise Larsa if he scrounged up too much trouble, but never exactly standing in his way, either. And Gabranth, the mutt of farmers from a kingdom now extinct.

"He likes you," she had said, and no one else mattered.

And he had been happy, in spite of all he had lost and left behind. He and Larsa had made all manner of mischief with Zecht, and dared to escalate it further in those two wild years when Famran tormented the Judiciary. He and Larsa had learned Dalmascan together, Gabranth standing guard during lessons and helping the boy practice—often at Drace's expense. They had overseen and occasionally assisted in the construction of hundreds of airships; they had nearly blown up a piece of rather costly lab equipment while toying around a with a fuse Doctor Cid had insisted was harmless—and once the fire was out, the lot of them had had a good laugh at it.

Perhaps that was the bite: not the poor decisions and their fortunate outcomes, not Basch or Zecht or Famran or Drace—perhaps it was only that so few of them remained who could recall being young together.

"Then let me go ahead," Gabranth said when Bergan had finished lecturing him on shielding Larsa from Balthier's inevitable fate. "Let me get him to safety, and then you can start all the wars you want."

The small scrape of metal sounded a shift in Bergan's stance, his head tilting just slightly downward, as though he could hope to look down on Gabranth from four inches beneath him. "And I'm sure I can count on your discretion where the honorable Judge Famran is concerned?"

"You can count on my subtlety." He despised the hollow ring the Judicial helmet forced upon his voice—the cold edge that overcame every word.

It would be war to land an _Atomos_ at the main settlement, but there were ways around that, and Bergan's impatience would spell a grander disaster if Gabranth did not head it off. He could not predict the princess, but Balthier would be smart about it, and so would Larsa.

Or would they? He could remember Balthier at a far too dignified sixteen, clearly not fond of children, but willing to hoist little Larsa onto his shoulders and discuss all manner of science with him as he would with an adult, and Larsa had always held his own in the lab, but recently—

Recently, they had both been taking risks. The Princess of Dalmasca—a new level of insanity there—but Larsa, fleeing his own country, putting Cid in danger in the process, though Gabranth was certain that Cid had no intention of working against Vayne. Cid and Gabranth shared that line of reasoning: ensure the boy's safety until Vayne's plans come to light.

He hadn't had the same foresight where his own boy was concerned. Balthier saw the position for the leash that it was: not as an honor, but a tightening loop of courtly duties and fealties and politics. It was a part of growing up that Cid himself had always pretended to ignore, hiding in whatever lab would have him, long-accustomed to the tedious nature of such business, the compromises one made with one's own desires and dreams, in the hopes of eventual forward progress. He had learned from it—had done better with Larsa, even if Balthier believed him the most terrible of villains, caring only for his work, oblivious to who was hurt or how. Cid's own loyalty was not quite called into question after the incident—the theft, the chase, the grand exploding spiral of Balthier's escape; the spotless nature of Cid's lifetime of service rendered his failure as a father deeply regrettable but not quite worthy of formal rebuke.

And Balthier should have stayed hidden—should have kept to the skies, far removed from this war and its pawns. It had been a long time coming—Balthier, the Judiciary, the _Strahl_. It was a good ship, and he was a smart boy. Gabranth had always assured himself that they'd never find him, but now, as he looked over the ships in the Alexander's hangar, as he studied the snow-dusted crags and fissures far below, he assured himself that Balthier was still smart—that he would skirt the edge of visibility only long enough to be effective, that he would blend back into the clouds and be safe, that he retained a sense of subtlety.


	44. Chapter XLIII

Going way off script here…

 _XLIII._

"I'm not made for this kind of weather," Penelo said, trudging, shivering, squeezing her frame.

She had taken to following in Basch's footsteps—he was accustomed to the snow, and plowed through it with barely a thought.

"We're almost there," he told her.

Larsa bounded up to her side. "You have to keep moving. It keeps you warm." He circled around her and back, then trotted up between Basch and Fran.

"Can't move," she called. "Legs frozen."

He laughed, then darted back to her, grabbing her hand in both of his and tugging her into a weak gallop.

"It's not much farther," Basch assured her.

"Come on," Larsa added. "It'll seem warmer through the gate."

It did, if only marginally—the high wood posts stood guard against the flurries for the few moments it took to pass between them, and the scattered pavilions beyond bolstered the worst of the wind. Penelo returned her gaze to the ground as she slowed to a walk at Larsa's side, and found the barest comfort in comparing the snow to the sand of her homeland—pale, smooth, though far too apt at retaining her footprints in perfect detail; the sand would grant only softened divots.

Fran had been fighting a habit of shaking the snow from her feet every few steps, granting Penelo some sense of not being the only one out of place, but Fran was not a complainer—was not a talker in general—and Penelo was a peasant and a thief, far from a Viera, a languid creature from a lush green world. She resigned not to talk—to let silence bed down her discomfort—and then, the thought still fresh in her head, she said, "They better have a fire going when we get there." And then she winced.

"I'm sure they will," Basch answered.

It hardly fazed him—Basch—the snow passing beneath his boots as easily has it had on the mountainside when it rose past his knees. Reks had written to her a few times while he was away—had told her that Landis laid hidden beneath thick snowfall for nearly half of each year, back when it was just called Landis and not Rozarrian Landis or Archadian Landis. Reks had been happy to see the world—she had envied him—and she had nurtured a thirst for the horizon herself for nearly half her life, but now that she was so far from home, and now that home was so far from what it once was—

Basch trudged on unconcerned, only the faintest hardness behind his eyes, his face calm, his steps sure, and Penelo couldn't fathom it—the composure, the perseverance, after so many years in foreign lands, so many tribulations, so many defeats.

Larsa said something in Archadian then, and she met his gaze.

"You're sure—what?"

"I'm sure they will," he said, then repeated it in Archadian. "Say it."

She did, and he smiled. "Good."

"What's the word for fire?" she asked.

There were two, it turned out—one for fire itself, and another for a fire restrained to a hearth or candle. He taught her both, as he had been teaching her for most of the trip. She had heard the language spoken in the streets often enough to pick some up, but she understood it better than she spoke it, and the words came out shaky at best, not that Larsa minded. He had enlisted her help in discerning the subtle differences between mainland Dalmascan and Bhujerban Dalmascan, and even Penelo had to admit that her native language sounded better when spoken by Archadians, though Larsa was quick to assure her—meaning no offense—that Archadian was far more difficult to pick up than Dalmascan.

His optimism was waning, however. He had kept up a decent façade while Al-Mid was near, but now that the prince had departed—insisting that he needed no assistance in eluding the Imperial fleet that hung portentously overhead—the boy was fading, falling back into the sullenness that had claimed him since receiving news of his father's death. Penelo wasn't sure if she could handle seeing him like that again: pale, wilted, eyes vacant and voice dim.

She had sat up with him that night—both exhausted, but too distraught to sleep—and struggled to rouse a conversation out of him, receiving only quick glances and one-word answers. But when she had finally asked him if he wanted to be left alone, he grabbed her arm and told her no. And then he spoke—about Gramis, his voice, his laughter, his predominantly boring tales of his youth and the practiced air of interest Vayne had taught Larsa to affect when listening to them, and the light in the emperor's eyes when Larsa laughed.

He rarely saw his father more than once a day, he said—raised primarily by an army of nurses and tutors and Judges—but Penelo knew there was something lost there. The boy's early years were spent at constant victory parties under the alias of a distant cousin of the Solidors, where every noble would pet and tease and fawn over him, and Vayne would allow him a few sips of champagne, and he would wake the next afternoon with only fleeting memories of the previous night. Cid had dismantled all the efforts of Larsa's tutors, assuring him that rules could bend quite a long way before breaking, and that as long as something good was discovered at the end, the means were always justified. Vayne taught him to fence, and Drace taught him to read. Gabranth taught him to curse in Landisian.

But Gramis—Gramis was his father, and that was permanent, inescapable. Whatever else he was, he would always be Larsa's father. And Vayne would always be his brother, and all the more important to him now that he was the only family he had left. Larsa had insisted that Vayne wanted what was best for Dalmasca—seemed to believe it, poor thing—but the tent had grown colder and darker around her that night as he told her of his earliest memory of his brother: Vayne, young, strong, bright and proud in his Archadian uniform, coming to see him in his room when he was very small. The rest of the scene had faded into the blotchy fog of early memory, but he remembered how tall his brother had seemed—how imposing. Vayne was angry about something, and it made him vivid, intense, the rest of the room dim and faded behind him.

"Not you," he had said, "no matter how they try. You'll be safe."

Larsa remembered how bright his eyes were, how warm his hands, but it was no comfort to Penelo. Dalmasca was Vayne's territory, not his blood, and he would protect it in different ways, and for different reasons. After he left, Larsa had said, the maids fluttered around the nursery, cleaning and straightening things as if they could banish the impression he made. She wished it were that easy.

Now the boy was up and moving and somewhat energetic, if only for the sake of appearances. He bounded through the village, pulling Penelo by the wrist and then the hand, flashing in and out of clarity as they passed under the intermittent torches lighting the walkways. The village's residents were all warm indoors for the night, every house and tent glowing from within, and smoke drifted out of the small pavilion they had been granted for their stay. Ashe and Balthier sat opposite each other by a fire inside, its heat radiating from the flap when Basch pulled it open.

"Did Al-Mid make it out safely?" Ashe asked, standing as they entered.

Basch nodded. "There's been no commotion from the fleet so far. That seems a good enough sign."

"I'm sure he'll be alright," Larsa added. "He knows his way around an airship."

Fran hung her jacket on a post and sat on a cushion beside Balthier, who was poking at the fire with a fresh log. "I hear we're going back to Balfonheim," she said.

"Eventually," Ashe replied. "We have three weeks to track down my uncle and convince him to hold off the Resistance. But first we'll need to get Larsa home."

Larsa was still in the entry way stomping snow off his boots while Penelo hung their coats to dry. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Once you're all safe, I'll just head down the road to the check point."

Ashe spoke with a sigh: "Larsa—"

"I'll be fine."

"I don't want you wandering on your own."

"I do it all the time."

Now Basch stepped in: "Things are different now. Someone could recognize you."

The boy took a seat on Balthier's other side. "Anyone who's seen me won't be here."

"You look like a Solidor," said Balthier. "I'd snatch you."

Larsa rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"I suppose we could send Penelo with you," Ashelia went on. "I doubt they'd hurt her, but we may never get her back."

Penelo and Basch sat on either side of the princess, and Larsa's eyes briefly locked on Penelo's before returning to Ashelia's. "I could have her sent back to Rabanastre," he said. "You could pick her up there."

Penelo's cheeks flushed, and she turned her face down, hoping the blaze of the fire might hide it. Larsa was making his case well—Vayne and the Judges thought Penelo nothing more than a friend, and the princess would very likely return to Rabanastre in search of the marquis anyway—and the prospect of exploring another Imperial airship, and possibly even the palace, intrigued Penelo despite all the accompanying weight of implication. But Ashelia seemed not so much swayed as resigned, her fingers interlaced between her knees as she leaned toward the fire, her mouth loose around unsure words.

"What's wrong?" Larsa asked.

Her eyes sharpened at the change of subject, and he continued:

"It's all gone well so far. I know Halim will listen to you."

The princess knocked her knuckles together with a sigh, then laced her fingers again and spoke: "I feel like I'm selling my soul—crawling to Vayne, promising I'll behave if he gives me the chance."

"But he will," Larsa insisted. "Give you the chance. It's not crawling. It's peace."

"I never thought I would buy peace for this much shame," said Ashe.

"Shame perhaps for you," Basch replied, "but for Dalmasca, it's hope."

"And you can just accept this?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Not easily," he admitted, "but this war is more important than my pride—or yours, for that matter."

She took in a grounding breath. "There are times when you sound just like Balthier, you know?"

"I'm sure you mean that as a compliment," Balthier interjected, gleaning a smirk from Basch.

"This is what the Resistance wants, though, isn't it?" Larsa asked. "The point is freedom, not fighting."

"It is," said Ashe, nodding. "But so many of them—not just Dalmascans, but all of them—so many of them want to fight. Halim may listen to me, but the people won't be easy to sway."

"You'll be their queen," he insisted.

Ashe didn't seem to have an answer to this, so Penelo spoke up: "It's hard to explain, Larsa. Sometimes getting what you want isn't enough."

"They want to punish Archadia?" he asked.

"I—" She choked, digging her fingers into the cushion beneath her. "Yes. They do."

His eyes were steady. "You do."

She looked away, and he turned his eyes to Ashelia and then to Basch before finally resting them on his feet.

"I just want my brother back," Penelo said at length. "I just want the only thing I can't have, and that does something to me. It makes me someone I don't want to be."

"It makes us all someone we don't want to be," Ashe agreed.

"But we have the power to do something about it," said Basch. "Everyone has lost something in this war, and everyone wants vengeance, but we can move past that."

"But then what did they die for?" Penelo replied. "Reks and Rasler and everyone else? If we just move on, what have they accomplished?"

"Peace." The answer came from Balthier, and they all turned to him, eyes light and searching. The effects of the fire, Penelo thought—but only half believed it.

"I'm not Reks and I'm not Rasler," Balthier went on, "but I'm guessing they wanted to protect their homes. Maybe they wanted vengeance, too—who can say? I'd bet good money they also wanted peace."

Ashe seemed ready to speak when the ring of a bell sounded outside the pavilion's entry flap—they were prayer bells, one of the villagers tending to them had explained: ornate brass chimes tied on a length of string and wound around posts outside the dwellings so that the wind could not disturb them, and intended to bring blessings with every visitor who rang. It was said that in a strong enough storm, the bells would loose themselves to announce the arrival of protective spirits, though Balthier had scoffed—and Penelo had suspected—that this was simply the nature of wind.

All the same, when Basch rose to answer the summons, Penelo half-expected some misty visage of goodwill to sweep in around them, and stood up straight when—just for a moment—she seemed to be right: Basch stood aside, and the Gran Kiltias entered the tent.


	45. Chapter XLIV

_XLIV._

Perhaps it was all the endless nights he spent caged like a dog in Nalbina's oubliette, but the sharp gust of wind that cut in through the tent's open flap somehow felt refreshing. He hesitated to tie the cords behind the Gran Kiltias, breathing in the ice and snow as Ashelia rose from her seat at the fire.

"Your Grace," she said, and Basch swallowed a deep breath and shut the flap.

The Gran Kiltias nodded his courtesies as the others stood as well. "Your Highness, Your Excellency. I do hope the hour is not too late to intrude."

"Not at all," said Ashe. She seized a pillow from her cot and thumped it atop the cushion where she had sat—the thickest in the room—then stepped back, gesturing for the old man to sit. "Please, sit and get warm."

"Ah, thank you, Highness."

They all settled back into their seats, scooting and shifting to accommodate the additional body, to grant enough room for Ashe to sit beside him without crowding him. Penelo wiggled onto Larsa's seat, leaving room for Basch at her other side, next to the princess.

It gave him pause: the sight of her there in the firelight—Penelo—eyeing him expectantly and then flicking her eyes to the open seat in a casual offer that was forgotten as quickly as it was made. He had made too comfortable a habit of this—staring at the poor girl—though he did not think she had yet noticed. She was seventeen—the same age his wife had been upon their first meeting. She had the same yellow hair, the same jewel-blue eyes, the warmth, the vivacity, the peel of her laughter on the crisp mountain air. She had that fight in her, and that stubbornness he had cursed but never truly wanted to wear thin, and being here in this place that was so similar to Landis, with the snow and the wind and the fire—Penelo was slowly killing him.

He had missed half a conversation, he realized. There had been introductions and pleasantries, and Fran was gazing at the Gran Kiltias with an intensity and wonder that seemed to take them all off-guard—he spoke a few words of Vieran, and knew something of the Golmore Jungle, and Fran seemed as enthralled as she was honored by his attention. Basch doubted the Viera held many humans in such high regard.

He drew near to Penelo and sat by her. Her eyes didn't turn from the Gran Kiltias.

"Nethicite." Ashe was repeating it, and the Gran Kiltias grew grim at the sound of it.

"You said it as though it would trump all else," he told her. "As though there would be nothing left."

Ashe turned her eyes to the floor and nodded. "It's more than magicite. It's more terrible than anything in this war. Archadia used it on Nabudis, and Vayne has another piece still."

"I have never heard the name," the Gran Kiltias replied, "but I have heard whispers enough of its terror, and when you mentioned it, I knew—" He looked away for only a moment, and then continued: "In the records of the Galtean War, it is written that King Raithwall wielded an ancient power bestowed on him by the gods themselves. Exaggerations, I had always thought—it was not uncommon to speak of royalty as divinely appointed in those times. But after Nabudis, and the tone of your voice this afternoon, I knew this unspeakable thing had been visited on Ivalice again."

"But what can we do?" asked Ashe. "What did King Raithwall do? Do the records say?"

He shook his head. "The records say that Raithwall restored the weapon to the gods once the Galtean Alliance was forged, and that he left only shards of it to his descendants. The legend, of course, is that those shards were the first magicite, but we know all that is myth; mining technology wasn't long in the making."

"What was it called?" This question came from Larsa who eyes seemed all the darker in the firelight. "The weapon, I mean. If it wasn't called nethicite."

"The Cryst was the traditional name," said the Gran Kiltias. "And there are no tales of its violence, but that is certainly to be expected—history being written by the victors, and such. All accounts speak of Raithwall's ability to allay the fears of others, to gain their trust and convince them to compromise and agree—this was said to be his gift from the gods in most scrolls from the time, but others address the thing as a light, or something that might give light, though it is difficult to say which tales spoke in metaphor and which spoke literally. Some say magicite was the Dynast King's reward for bringing peace to Ivalice, others say magicite was the very means by which he brought that peace. By either account, the Cryst was bound to the gods and bound to Raithwall's blood: he divided it—supposedly with a holy blade forged in heaven itself—and kept only a shard for himself and one each for his daughters, then surrendered the rest to those who created it."

"And the sword?" Ashe asked.

"The gods destroyed it, so the stones could be divided no further. But that is why I have come to speak with you."

Ashe leaned out slightly, her back straightening and her head lifting, but the Gran Kiltias spoke again before she could question him:

"There is rumor of a second sword—not in the official records, but here at Bur-Omisace. It is said that Raithwall himself commission the blade of the gods, out of fear that someone else should take command of the Cryst and use it for—less honorable ends. This mountain, you know, has always been holy—ever since time began. The Dynast King sought the guidance of the Gran Kiltias of his own time on this very peak, and he entrusted that Gan Kiltias with the power to destroy the Cryst, although he never had cause to use it."

"And the sword?" Ashe pressed. "Did he keep it?"

The Gran Kiltias nodded. "He did. Why Raithwall would entrust such an instrument to the mountain and not his own progeny, I cannot say, but I am bound to neutrality, and so I thought it best to pass this power onto its rightful owner."

Ashe leaned forward, short hair framing her face, shielding her eyes from the fire and shadowing them to a glimmering flint tone. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"However—" He raised a halting hand. "I fear there are complications."

"Complications?" the princess asked.

"Once the war ended," the Gran Kiltias continued, "the sword was regarded as a holy relic, and a place was made for it in the Galtean Shrine. But the shrine took many decades to construct—it was not completed until well after the Dynast King's death. There were—attempts made on it."

Ashe blinked. "Attempts?"

"To steal it. Not many knew of its existence, and many of those few who did had no idea of its true purpose. The rumors at the time were that it was the Cryst itself—the blade Raithwall wielded during the war. The Gran Kiltias of those days decided it could not be safely displayed—we on the mountain have not the resources to protect such a treasure. So the shrine was redesigned part way through construction, and a hidden chamber was added to keep the blade safe."

"But you know where it is, don't you?" Ashe asked.

The Gran Kiltias took in a heavy breath, but the princess cut him off, looking to Balthier, who sat across the fire from her, biting back a smirk.

"Balthier," she scolded, and he released a laugh.

"No, no," he said. "Go on. I'm sure this will work itself out."

The Gran Kiltias allowed a small smile as well. "I know only that the sword is in the Shrine. I'm afraid I must leave the rest to you."

"Well," said Ashe, "we've never balked at a challenge before. We'll head out for the shrine tomorrow."

Basch met her eyes. "After we find a way to get Larsa home safely, of course."

"Of course," she replied.

"No!" Larsa straightened, gripping the pillow beneath him with both hands. "I want to see it."

"Larsa," Balthier groaned.

"If we can get rid of the nethicite, I want to know how," he insisted.

Ashe shook her head. "You've been away from home too long as it is."

"Vayne's the only one with working nethicite," the boy went on. "If you're going to destroy it, you'll need my help."

"Larsa," Penelo stepped in, "we can't keep putting you in danger."

"It's just an old building," he replied.

Balthier huffed. "You didn't see the last old building Her High and Mightiness dragged us into."

"The fleet is somewhat concerning," said the Gran Kiltias. "If Your Excellency means to contact them, it would be safest to do so while your companions are some distance from the village."

"How long could it take?" Larsa went on. "What's one more day? This could change the course of Archadia's history. You can't send me home now."

"He knows quite a bit about nethicite," Ashe said on an exhale.

"Ashe," Basch replied, "you can't be serious."

"What if it's like Raithwall's tomb?" Penelo added, and then she turned to Larsa. "Larsa, you could really get hurt. I don't want that."

"I can take care of myself," he told her. "You've seen me take care of myself."

She shook her head, then turned to Balthier. "Balthier?"

He lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. "I seem to be on retainer here. I take orders from the princess."

Penelo looked again to Ashe, but Basch knew it was pointless to continue arguing. Ashelia's people hated the Empire; they would not accept an alliance peacefully. Should she become queen now, powerless as she was, she could protect nothing—and if she could find no opportunity to gain more power, her only hope lied in depriving Archadia of its own. She would take any other way out to spare her people the bloodshed of civil war—to spare herself the shame of surrender to Archadia.

"We're taking him with us," Ashe told her attendants. "We leave first thing tomorrow."


	46. Chapter XLV

_XLV._

The Galtean Shrine stood some distance in the forest, on a slope known as the Paramina Rift. The rift had formed a few hundred years ago, when wind eroded the mountain's peak and dropped tremendous shards of granite down the mountain side. The shrine had survived, as had the village built around it, but as the slope grew steeper—as its edge neared to the settlement—the Gran Kiltias of the time had ordered the village moved inward to its current location, leaving the shrine behind.

Ashelia and her corterie reached it just before sunset, having spent most of the morning waylaid by a storm, which had—they all lamented—done nothing to discourage the Imperial Archadian fleet hovering overhead. Penelo and Larsa bounded a few yards ahead of the group, as they often had throughout the short trek, but Penelo hit a patch of ice and slipped to the ground, laughing as Larsa doubled back to help her up. Ashe led the others forward to join them, the whole group soaked by steady snowfall.

The shrine towered near the cliff's edge, and Ashe thought to herself that it seemed a safer shelter than the cathedral in the settlement at their backs—the same erosion would soon push the current village to a new location, just as it had the older one. But the cathedral's architecture echoed the culture of the mountain, while the shrine bore the same ancient pillars and blocks they had observed in Raithwall's tomb. It was almost startling—this monument of Dalmascan architecture standing proudly so far from the desert. But the shrine had been built in an era when all the cultures of Ivalice held Dalmasca as their hub—when the Dynast King had ruled a vast empire worthy of such a monument.

This was where Raithwall and the Gran Kiltias of his generation had hosted the great conference that formed the Galtean Alliance; the shrine stood as a monument to peace and to those who would pursue it, and to Ashe—however delusional the hope in her heart—it seemed believable that the ultimate tool of peace would reside here. A small cadre of priests and priestesses tended the shrine, and one of each walked out to meet the group as they drew near, welcoming them in several languages and ushering them to one of the small wooden hovels scattered about the snow bank to shelter visitors.

But as they led her forth, Ashelia couldn't pull her eyes from the smiling crescent moon raised in stone above the shrine's entrance, its great stone prongs turned upward, inlaid with swirls of gleaming metal. In the crescent's crook rested two stone spheres—one of granite and one of marble—which collided with each other in the moon's cradle, the point of contact jagged and cragged, cracks splintering outward over both polished surfaces. The same blocky, triangular statues that overlooked Raithwall's tomb stood guard along the temple's roof, barely shadows against the darkening sky.

A flutter caught her attention—a powdery white owl gliding from a tree in the distance, snow dropping silently from the branch behind it. Better to explore the shrine in the light of day, she thought, though the wait set a tremor in her stomach. Sleep eluded her, as she suspected it would. Hours passed, the rhythmic breath of her companions washing the room with the warmth of slumber, and she rolled to face the center of the tiny room, the smoldering fire at its center no more than glowing coals. She built it up a bit before she left.

The snow almost glowed in the moonlight, the shadows of the evergreen trees at the edges of the clearing a green-black vacuum by comparison. The shrine seemed painted in blues and grays, the deepest recesses of its façade glinting just faintly as the silver and gemstone insets reflected the gleam of the snow. Ashe stopped short at the sight of two flashing discs in the forest—eyes, quick, sharp, a well-camouflaged fox swishing away as soon as she spotted it. Just as the princess released the breath she had been holding, a voice sounded behind her, calling her name. She spun, eyes darting from point to point on the horizon, but no one stood there. Her hand clutched the stone in her pocket, and she drew a breath to shout, but another voice interrupted her.

"Princess?"

Larsa stood a few paces to her side, bundled tightly in his jacket, head tilted. She hadn't noticed him missing from their shelter—hadn't counted how many shadows she stepped over in the dark.

"Larsa," she replied. "Are you alright?" Somehow, the words came out in Archadian.

"Fine," he said with a small smile, returning the language. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

"Because of the fleet or because of the nethicite?"

She exhaled, and started toward the steps at the base of the shrine. "You're starting to sound like Balthier."

He smiled, following at her side. "My deepest apologies."

"Do I really seem so affected by it?" she continued.

"Not always. I'm actually kind of glad I'm not the only one."

She cast him a glance, and he expounded: "Sometimes I think I can hear it."

Ashe stopped at the stone stairs, looking up to the crashing spheres above the entry. "Power can do that," she said.

He nodded. "Power…"

"I don't think it has much use, though," she went on, sitting on a step as he dropped beside her. "Other than proving who I am."

"I suppose that's for the best," he agreed.

"Perhaps."

A pause fell between them as he focused on the ground and she searched for something—anything—appropriate to say. With a small, childish tone, he at last broke the silence, his eyes far off. "I'm sorry I've caused you so much trouble."

"No, no," she insisted with a quick shake of her head. "You've been of great help."

He nodded toward the fleet, dimply moonlit overhead amid the parting clouds. "Is that help?"

"That's inevitable," she assured him.

"Then is it bad that I want to go home?"

A sigh overcame her. "I don't mean to patronize you or insult your brother," she said slowly, "but I worry about what might become of you if you go back."

"I don't think he'd hurt me," Larsa said. "I mean, I can't know anything for certain these days, but—Drace and Gabranth wouldn't give him the chance. You don't have to worry."

"They take good care of you?"

He nodded. "Despite my best efforts."

"Basch isn't exactly obliging where his brother is concerned," she admitted. "I wish I could meet him."

"I don't think it would make much difference," said Larsa. "He's just like Basch."

"He can't be." A moment of stunned silence broadened the air between them, Larsa's eyes wide. Ashe had not spoken with exceptional volume, but the severity of her tone suggested anger in such an accusation, and Larsa—Ashe knew—had intended no such thing. "I mean—" she added. "I know they're brothers, but…"

"They can't be very alike if they hate each other?" he asked at her hesitance.

"Right," she said, eyes on her boots.

"That's what I always thought," Larsa went on, "and I _have_ tried to see it otherwise, believe me, but that's just how it is. I thought meeting Basch might explain Gabranth, but I guess there's more to it than that."

"What is there to explain?" she pressed, and then: "If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm not sure, really," Larsa answered. "Sometimes he's just so—quiet."

"Quiet?"

"But only since the last year or so."

Her voice lowered. "Do you know why?"

He hesitated. "I think it had something to do with Dalmasca—you don't mind, do you?"

"No, tell me."

"When I got older, my father decided Drace could handle things on her own. People always whispered about Gabranth, you know? Because he's Landisian. No one wants him in the Judiciary—they act like it's some sort of insult to them. But anyway, Father reassigned him to replace Judge Zecht, and—I don't know for sure, but I think he was at Nalbina. I—I'm sure the stories you've heard about it are different from the ones I've heard about it."

Ashe nodded—tried not to shrug.

"He led some troops in securing the border, I know," Larsa continued, "but—he and Drace only talk about Nalbina when they think I'm not listening. I asked her once, and she told me not to bring it up—especially not around him."

"Hm."

At her silence, he glanced up to her, brown eyes shrouded. "Basch didn't do it, right?"

She nodded. "Right."

More silence descended as his eyes turned to the ground. He shifted slightly, his breath still, and spoke: "Vayne was there."

And Ashe turned to him quickly, praying that he might read her sympathy over her anger. He gazed out at the distance as though forcing himself to see some humor in the situation.

"I try not to think about it," he said.

"Gabranth assimilated to the country that conquered his," she replied. "Helping it take down others—can't have been easy for him."

Larsa nodded. "He hates this war—all wars, but this one…"

She nodded as well. "I know."

"I suppose what I don't understand is why they can't just make amends and get along. They both seem reasonable enough."

"If it were that easy, they'd have moved on by now. I doubt either of us knows the whole story."

"Good point," he admitted. "Maybe I just want to make it up to him—Gabranth, I mean. After all my family did to his home, he's never held it against me."

"How could he?" she asked. "You're not responsible for your family's actions."

"But it's not fair that he should have to do this. He's the only person who's never tried to use me."

Now she looked directly at him. "You really think that?"

"I know it," he said, meeting her eyes. "It's not that I'm upset or anything—you're using me for something good, just like I'm using you. The same goes for Vayne and my father—Drace and Balthier, all of them. I can understand that. But sometimes…" He shrugged, turning his gaze away once more. "It's just nice to not have anything expected of you."

"I see," she replied, her eyes falling to the ground as well. A brief moment of silence settled between them, and she spoke again: "My mother never used me—I think because she had always been used."

He answered first with a slow nod, and then added, "My father tried not to, but using people was the only thing he ever really understood."

It seemed to dawn on her all too quickly then: Larsa had remained in mourning for all the time he had traveled with them, but he did not dare bring it up, knowing his companions' feelings regarding his father's death. The art of comfort was utterly lost on Ashe—she knew only the sympathetic courtesies that conveyed politeness, and how to deliver them with the professional calmness that befitted royalty; that would only deepen the chill for Larsa. At length, she offered the only words she could muster: "I was about your age when she died."

"Does it ever go away?" he asked quietly.

"No. But it gets easier."

It was like a creek then, Ashe thought—a trickle of connection that bumped over the rocks and gained speed at a slope of the foundation beneath it, cutting its way into a river: they spoke of their parents, haltingly, somberly, all intrigue fallen away and scattered. Larsa's gaze remained steady, his voice unwavering, and Ashe tried to smile, to ignore years of hatred and terror of this boy's heritage, to forget that he had been bred for war, just as all of the Solidors had. He related what he could of his opinion of his mother—only eighteen when he was born—and the elegance of his enunciation sturdily masked his age, though Ashe had learned to see beyond it now. Gradually, it became clear that Larsa had a slightly different understanding of death.

The celebrations of his birth overshadowed his mother's funeral. When he grew old enough to understand, he was told that she died bearing him. Some people, he noticed, could not meet his eyes when they spoke of it—his father especially. When he asked Vayne for clarification, he explained that every royal marriage was a contract, and that his mother had exchanged her life for his, and that he shouldn't ask about it anymore, so he didn't.

He told of his father's better attributes, the way he would look at Larsa, the way he would hang on his every word, even when the boy went on twenty-minute tangents concerning nethicite and airships and anything else going on in the laboratory that week. The praise pained Ashelia—this was Gramis the Conquerer Larsa loved so dearly—but somehow she felt the pain was necessary: there had to be humanity in her enemy if there was to be humanity in her. She wished that all of Dalmasca could hear the boy's stories, could see the guilt and occasional justification that plagued Archadia's citizens, but she knew she would have to bear their anger; she knew they could never comprehend this.

They returned to the shelter as the moon finished its fall, lavender light veiling the stars, spreading upward over the sky. The fleet hung there, still, the first rays of sunlight beaming off its flagship.


	47. Chapter XLVI

_XLVI._

Balthier had decided—after extensive study and analysis—that the thing about Ashe that eluded him most was everything: not each piece individually, but the unified whole. The pieces made sense, as did the motivations and the progression of circumstances that shaped them, but these things in tandem should not logically have assembled into the woman that stood before him.

She spoke with a young priest in the shrine's foyer, Basch and Penelo flanking her, Larsa tight at Penelo's side and following the conversation with an intensity that narrowed his eyes and hardened his mouth to the point that Balthier almost straightened to attention as he would in Gramis's presence. The priest spoke Nabradian, which was similar enough to Dalmascan that Balthier could follow every few words, but it was more complex than its sister tongue, and he suspected there were connotations at work that he wasn't catching, and so he lingered a few steps behind the group, barely half listening.

"It has a hold on her," Fran said in Vieran, tall and loose at Balthier's side.

He still had trouble decoding Vieran, and it frustrated him all the more against Ashelia's Nabradian. "It does," he replied. "So why chase after some legend?"

"To be free of it?"

"Or to rid Vayne of it."

Fran had raised a brow as she asked, but now she lowered them both into a hard line. "You don't trust her with such power?"

Balthier kept his eyes on the princess. "I don't trust anyone with such power."

"So you chase the legend with her."

From anyone else it would have seemed an accusation, but Fran was all analytics—every excursion a science experiment, every observation tucked away and applied with precision to the next relevant interaction. It reminded him of his father. Maybe that's why he'd stuck with her so long.

"This way," the priest said—Balthier caught that much—and Ashe glanced at them over her shoulder as she took stride.

"This can't be good," he told Fran, following after her.

The expansive chamber beyond the foyer was packed with petitioners—the priest led them on a winding path through the kneeling bodies, all hands clasped, all heads bowed. Incense smoldered on an altar at the center, a priestess murmuring over it. The Galtean Shrine was at least more welcoming than Raithwall's tomb—and better maintained. The soaring columns were neatly cleaned and polished, the engravings on the walls kept clear and the beams of the ceilings recently renovated. It had been designed as a sanctuary, filled with alcoves and icons and ornate stone benches, all of which facilitated the phenomenal waste of energy known as prayer. Balthier could remember his mother declaring that people only ask the gods to do something if they are unable or unwilling to do it themselves—"A false sense of accomplishment," she had said. "An excuse to do nothing of any real consequence." He had thought her a cynic for saying it—and thought his father a cad for laughing in agreement—but knew now that it was true, and the temple felt stagnant to him because of it. This was a place of powerlessness, and the princess hoped it housed the means to destroy nethicite?

"Their numbers grow every year," the priest told them as they passed from the large chamber into a small hallway beyond. The ceiling was low here, and the candle-bearing sconces too far apart. "Displaced by the war, seeking peace."

Nabradian was also more formal than Dalmascan—its sentence structure closer to Archadian's than any other language, however difference the words might sound. Ashe said something Balthier didn't understand, and the priest went on about the village being over crowded, about the hundreds of refugees coming and going these days, and the donations of food and blankets and lumber from Archadia and Rozarria, which the Gran Kiltias accepts without reproach. Make refugees and then feed them, Balthier thought—not a good way of doing business.

He noticed then that Larsa was conspicuously close to his side, as he had been for much of the journey. He supposed he ought to be flattered, but it made him anxious more than anything—not just because the boy should have gone home the very moment it was possible, but because there was vulnerability in attachment, in responsibility. This tiny creature, so breakable and so trusting, clinging to him with every expectation of security and care and returned affection: he saw now how Drace and Gabranth had fallen into place so easily, but he wasn't ready for the sacrifice—not while there were still skies to conquer and lands to explore. He ignored the boy.

The priest leading them took a candle from the wall and lit a torch with it, then leaned into a rounded wooden door until it opened.

"We had to close this room off last year," he said as they filed in behind him. "There were so many visitors, and so few of us to keep watch. We couldn't risk harm to the relics."

Quietly, Larsa repeated the last word as a question, and Ashe translated for him.

Life-sized stone warriors guarded the four corners of the room, helms shielding their faces, swords strapped to their hips. Each one bore a torch, and the priest walked about the room lighting them from his own. The chamber was small and square, with the door on one wall and small items held on pedestals centered against the other three: a ring, a crown, and a dagger. A large stone tablet stood at the room's center, triangular and carved with line after line of ancient Dalmascan text.

"No sword?" Ashelia asked, stepping slowly around the tablet.

"No sword, Highness," the priest replied with a smile. "It's hard to say whether the sword is an exaggeration or a myth entirely. Some say the dagger grew through the retelling, but we on the mountain believe the sword is a metaphor for the shrine itself. Peace was the weapon Raithwall used to defeat his enemies; this is a monument to peace."

Balthier thought for a moment that Ashelia would punch the man, but she only pursed her lips and nodded, eyes scanning the room.

"Would Your Highness like a moment?" the priest asked.

"If we may?"

"Of course." And then, with a bow, he left the room, drawing the door shut behind him.

"A metaphor," Basch said on an exhale.

"There must be more to it than that," Ashe replied, stepping slowly past each of the relics, eyes bright.

Basch nodded. "Somehow, I doubt the Gran Kiltias would send you in search of an exaggeration."

"Raithwall's tomb all over again," Balthier groaned.

Larsa looked up to him. "Raithwall's tomb?"

"A puzzle," he answered.

Larsa grinned, and Balthier added:

"Right up your alley, brat."

"So," Penelo stepped in, bending at the waist to inspect the crown on its stone pedestal, "three things. All made of metal?"

"Good start," Larsa joined in. "All King Raithwall's?"

Ashe was studying the inscriptions on the tablet at the center of the room. "Not the dagger," she said absently.

"Right," said Penelo. "I know this one. Someone sent an assassin after him, and his wife tried to fight him off so the king could escape."

"Took the blade herself," Basch added. "And he kept it on her pillow until the war was over."

"That's awful," said Larsa.

"Well," Penelo shrugged, "something good came of it."

"Does there always have to be a trade?" he asked.

Penelo hesitated, and Fran, standing beside the dagger, spoke up: "No jewels on the dagger, either. And the ring and the crown are both circles, both made of gold. This is the piece that doesn't fit."

"So what do we do with it?" asked Balthier.

Ashe was still reading the inscription on the tablet. "We should probably take it with us."

Basch's brows lifted slightly in response to this, but Balthier spoke before he could: "Joining the ranks of pirates, Highness?"

"Not out of the shrine," she replied. "Into it." She leaned back from the great slab of stone and gestured to it. "It's all about opening the gateway to peace. A few too many references to doors and gates and keys." An open set of doors was engraved beneath the text, deep-carved beams of light pouring out from the aperture. "And there's a message."

They all gathered in behind her—stupid, Balthier thought, as only Ashe could read the writing.

"Some of the letters are upside down." Her long fingers flitted over the text. " _Gift of gods, curse of mortals._ "

"Sounds enough like nethicite to me," said Balthier.

The princess nodded. "My best guess."

"So we're looking for a doorway?" Penelo asked.

"And a key," Larsa added.

Basch stepped closer to the tablet, stooping slightly to study it. "Unless we already have the key." He looked to Ashelia. "You said the message was upside down?"

She tilted her head. "It won't stand up if we flip it."

The slab was a triangle, pointed at the top. But there was a groove in the pedestal beneath it, designed to hold it up, possibly deep enough to hold it upside down, though its nature remained hidden beneath the tablet.

"Doesn't hurt to try," said Balthier.

Ashe nodded. "Alright."

Balthier took hold of one side of the tablet while Basch took the other, and together they hefted the stone from its perch and rotated it sideways.

"Look!" Penelo bounced up to the pedestal and pointed at the depression on its surface. It was a narrow rectangle, long enough to support the base of the stone, but only level at the ends. The center dipped down into a triangular hole perfectly suited to fit the top of the tablet. "It can hold it either way," she continued.

Basch and Balthier sank the inverted stone into the depression, and the open doors carved at its base—now at the top—slowly lit up with the blue-white glow of magicite. The princess's coterie had barely enough time to wonder at the glow before all four torches snuffed themselves, plunging the room into darkness. They drew their swords—the whisk of steel piercing the black—but then a faint light rose from cracks in the floor: more magicite, inlaid along the edges of the stones on which they stood, lighting an uneven grid that cast a pale sheen over the room.

Balthier held his sword firm—only Penelo let her guard down, and then only enough to grip Larsa's shoulder and pull him behind her. But none of them could speak before the scrape of stone filled the room, the four statues guarding the chamber's corners creaking to life. The group huddled, backed up against the tablet, Balthier seizing Larsa's other shoulder and forcing him to the center of the cluster.

"Are they dangerous?" Ashe added.

Dust fell from the statues—the stone crumbling to powder at their joints as they jerked forward with staggering steps.

"They don't look dangerous," Penelo replied.

In unison, the statues drew their swords.

"They're dangerous," said Balthier.

The statues struck, Fran catching the first blade against her own and Penelo catching the second. The ring of steel fell blunt against the stone walls—the guardians bore real swords. Basch threw his attacker off and relieved it of its head, but it kept on swinging. Balthier caught a strike meant for Penelo, and she landed her blade on the statue's shoulder, knocking its arm free. It seized her sword with its other hand and wrenched it from her grasp.

Larsa ducked between them while the statue flipped Penelo's sword in the air and caught it by the hilt, and Balthier called after him, but could not follow. The statue lunged at Penelo, and Balthier met its stolen sword with his own, planting a boot on its chest and shoving it back. And then, with a puff of dust, the statue exploded, disintegrating into a pile on the floor.

Ashe was still battling her own foe, but spared a glance over her shoulder to Balthier. "What did you do?" she shouted.

"I don't know!" he replied.

He stepped up to her side and tried kicking the statue striking at her. It lurched back, and then lunged at him.

"It's the dagger!"

The shout came from Penelo, who had regained her sword and now stood beside Larsa. He stood behind the heap of sand, gripping the knife with one hand and waving the dust from the air before him with the other. Balthier had kicked the guardian away just as Larsa had seized the dagger from its pedestal—the stone collided with the blade, and the statue collapsed.

Penelo grabbed the dagger from the stunned child and leaped at the statute hacking at Fran. The blade sank into the stone shoulder as though it were nothing more than mud, and the guardian burst into a cloud of dust.

"Little help?" Basch called.

The girl rushed forward, but then leaned back as the statue swung its blade wide. Basch met it and took hold of the guardian's elbow with his free hand, opening a gap for Penelo. She lunged, planting the dagger in the statue's ribs.

Ashe chopped a leg off the statue before her, but it hopped along, slashing wildly, and she and Balthier drew back, letting it bounce where it would. It pursued them across the glowing floor, paying no heed to Penelo as she crept close behind it. A quick strike to the back, and the statue puffed away, leaving a pile of sand in its wake.

For a moment, only the sound of their breath interrupted the silence, but once the dust had settled, a thundering scrape filled the room—a section of stonework on the wall opposite the door drew back and slid off to the side, leaving the pedestal that had borne the dagger to stand, forlorn, before a gaping passageway.

"That," Larsa said, "was great."

Several sets of eyes fell on him, and Ashe, catching her breath, replied, "Bring the dagger."


	48. Chapter XLVII

_XLVII._

The hallway was cramped and dark, the ceiling low, the stone floor slick with condensation. Ashe stepped in with her sword drawn, and Basch gently took hold of her forearm.

"Highness."

She paused, hovering as though in a crouch, and tried not to glower at him. "Go on," she said with a nod.

He released her and stepped forward, then continued to advance slowly.

Ashe looked over her shoulder. "Balthier?"

"I've got him," he replied, ruffling Larsa's hair.

The boy winced and knocked his hand away.

A pale blue light eased into the darkness as Ashelia proceeded into the passage, and Basch drew still, looking at her.

"It's not coming from me," she said.

Basch glanced up to the glowing ceiling. "It's the walls."

"Magicite," said Penelo.

"It is coming from you," Fran added, walking loosely past the princess. "It recognizes your blood."

Ashe withheld a groan. The threads of magicite in the stone walls radiated only where Ashe passed, dimming at her back. Her attendants gathered close around her.

"Her blood?" Larsa asked.

"Premium commodity these days," Balthier replied. "Raithwall seemed to enjoy programming half his kingdom to respond to it."

Larsa stepped up to a wall and ran his hand over a vein of light. "You can't program magicite."

"Humans can't," Fran corrected.

"This doesn't look Viera-made," said Balthier.

"Well," Ashe continued, taking up a calm pace, the light rising around her and fading behind her, "it seems to like me, so let's get going."

At that moment, a great rumble shook the walls, clouds of dust shooting out of every crevice and choking the passageway. The last of the light that shone from the relic room at their backs snapped to black as the wall shot across the aperture and sealed it. The crash of it reverberated down the hall—Penelo and Larsa covered their ears—and then silence settled. Ashe waved her arm across her face a few times, coughing, and Basch turned to glance ahead and behind through the darkness, but a second shudder of sound cut Ashe off before she could speak. A thud—loud, echoing—and then another, shaking grains of stone from the walls. And then a scrape—continuous—growing louder and faster and closer.

"It's moving," Fran exclaimed, and Balthier cursed in response.

Basch's hand flew to Ashelia's shoulder and spun her to face the opposite direction. "Come on," he said, but her feet were already moving.

The magicite flickered to life as they ran, illuminating their path only inches ahead of each step. The wall continued to grate against the floor behind them, gaining speed, chasing them onward until the passageway came to an abrupt end. They collided with the stone wall, jumbling into a heap, and Penelo shouted, "Corner!"

They turned, and leaped. The wall slammed to a halt against the end of the corridor behind them and collapsed into rubble.

Once again, silence overcame them, save only for their rushing breath. Dust clouded the glow of the magicite in the walls.

"Well," Balthier said at length, "that was rude."

"Alright," Ashe replied, brushing dust from her shoulders and hair. "No more wasting time."

They stood in a small, square room, identical to the previous one but for the fact that this one was empty—and had no door. All four walls illuminated as Ashe stepped to the room's center and scanned the perimeter.

"So," Penelo asked, nearing her side, "what are we supposed to be seeing in here?"

The others paced the edges of the room, studying the walls.

"Good question," said Ashe.

"There is Mist here," Francesca said slowly.

"Mist?" Ashe replied.

"Beneath us," she continued, nose wrinkling. "A stale Mist—locked away in the mountain for far too long."

"What does that me—" A tremor in the floor cut Ashe off, and they all braced themselves against the walls.

"Not good," said Balthier.

"It's going to drop us," Larsa added.

Penelo stood with Ashe at the center of the room, where the ground felt most stable, and the two grabbed each other's hands, watching the edges of the floor scrape and slide against the walls.

"We have to balance it!" Penelo exclaimed, but Ashe shook her head.

"We're too lopsided!"

Basch, Balthier, and Larsa all stood at one edge of the room, and the stone floor was balanced from beneath on a single, central support—their weight drew one side of it down, forming a ramp, and they fell from their feet in an instant, sliding down into the darkness below.

The ground was hard—not stone, but frozen soil—and the platform above them righted itself as soon it was free of their weight, sealing off all light. Ashe could hear scuffling around her, but identified only the members of her cortege amid the noise, and so began to crawl in search of boundaries. Her fingers nudged up against a wall where she expected to find one, given the dimensions of the room above, and she stood, running her hands up the slick stone.

"Ouch," Penelo said through the darkness.

"And then some," Balthier replied. Faint clapping sounds broke the air, and Ashe surmised he was dusting himself off.

"Everyone alright?" Basch asked.

"Yes," said Fran.

"I'm fine," Larsa added.

Ashe felt something change in the stone's surface—a shallow fissure in the rock, multiple lines scored deftly. She ran her hands over the surface, two dozen more engravings rolling smoothly beneath her fingertips.

"Princess?" Basch called.

And before she could answer, her hands touched the pearl-smooth surface of a magicite orb and it bloomed to life. The group winced in unison as the light washed over them, and Ashe hunched away for a moment before again standing upright and facing the mural painted beneath the light. The lines had been inscribed into the stone, the pigments filling them flaking away in places, but predominantly flawless. Hundreds of soldiers fought one another with bronze axes and wooden shields—the painting sprawled farther down the wall, beyond the light's reach, dragging the battlefield into the darkness.

"Look," Ashe said.

They gathered in, and as Ashe stepped back, a beam of light struck the void behind her. They all spun to face it, Fran half-drawing her sword. Another magicite orb glowed there, mounted above a second mural, which depicted a scene no different from the first: armies on a field of battle, slaughtering each other with ancient weapons.

Larsa ran up to it with a grin. "The Galtean War," he said.

"Seems so," Ashe replied. She took a few sideways steps along the wall, her eyes bright blue in the light of the glimmering stone, and suddenly another orb flared to life, illuminating another section of the mural. The stone behind her lit up as well.

"Be careful," Fran warned, sliding her blade back into its sheath. "The Mist runs thick here."

The light of the magicite cast a sheen over the clouds of fog that rolled along the ground, knee-deep. Ashe swished one leg through it in a circle.

"It is dangerous?" she asked.

"It is old," Fran answered. "It has emotion in it."

"Emotion?"

"It is restless."

Larsa bounded into the darkness and called out to Ashe. "Keep walking! I want to see more!"

Penelo galloped after him, and Balthier rolled his eyes.

"Larsa!" he called.

Ashe huffed out a breath. "Let me know if it gets angry," she told Fran.

The Viera only blinked in response, but Basch cast a dark gaze on Ashelia. "Princess," he said, "be careful."

"Isn't that what I have you for?" she asked back, continuing down the corridor.

Lights continued to ignite as she passed, the Mist reflecting their glow onto the murals from below. The carvings progressed from open war to the political intrigue that fueled it—Raithwall's queen fighting his would-be assassin, his young daughters mourning her death, and then the great council: all the rulers of the land gathered at a single table with Raithwall at its head. Larsa stood before this portion of the painting, gazing upward with wide eyes.

"The Galtean Alliance," Penelo said from behind him.

"But they skipped the important part," he replied.

Ashe stepped up to them. "Which part is that?"

"How he did it," the boy expounded. "How he got them all to talk. After so much war—wouldn't the distrust be enough to destroy any attempt at peace?"

"Supposedly he offered them an alliance," she said, returning her gaze to the stones before them and tracing the image with one finger. "They didn't keep records back then—all we know is that he united all of the countries under one government."

Penelo shrugged. "Centuries of peace after decades of war."

"But in the beginning…" Larsa pressed. "How did he make them listen?"

Suddenly, Penelo leaned away from the princess. "Um, Princess? Your, uh—"

Balthier stepped in: "Your Highness is glowing."

Ashe cocked her head slightly, then followed their gazes downward, seeing precisely to which _highness_ he referred. The front of her hip emitted a faint light, and she quickly ended the jape by removing the Midlight Shard from her pocket. The stone promptly ceased its reaction, settling into dimness.

"Aww," Penelo groaned. "Why'd it stop?"

"Perhaps it senses something we do not," Fran speculated.

"Something you can't sense?" asked Balthier. "Not so sure I like this."

Basch paid no mind to the conversation, standing at the end of the corridor, staring closely at the end of the mural on the opposite wall. The final panel was still shrouded in darkness, but the edge of the light's halo cast shadows over the engravings. He gestured to it hesitantly. "There's something different about this one."

Ashe stepped up to him, and the stone above the painting lit up. It depicted Raithwall alone, both of his daughters having left him for their husbands in the previous mural. It was one of the plainer paintings in the room, though for some reason there seemed to be a good deal of detail in it.

"What's that?" Ashe asked at length, pointing behind the painted figure to the grey stone that bore it.

The others gathered around her. Though the surface did not hold the same color as the other murals, it had nevertheless been carved very faintly, a myriad of delicate lines swirling behind the figure of Raithwall, blending into the wall.

"Looks like clouds," Penelo mused.

"Mist?" Basch asked.

"It has eyes," Ashe replied with a shudder.

"Where?" asked Balthier.

"There." She pointed to a pair of deftly hewn circles amid the curling lines. "And there."

"And down here," Larsa noted, pointing out another pair.

"My gods," said Basch, "they're everywhere."

"Creepy," Penelo muttered.

"It's kind of warm," Larsa noted, laying a hand on the stone.

They all followed suit: the wall emitted a gentle, throbbing heat. A sudden shudder then resounded throughout the chamber as the weight of their touch seemed to loosen the stone panel that bore the carving, triggering the great stone to slide backwards and drop into a groove several inches beyond. The panel slid to the side, revealing a hidden alcove beyond and releasing a humid cloud of Mist that gleaned a choke out of Fran. The attention of the group momentarily shifted to the Viera, who stumbled backward and shook her head.

"It's alright," she assured them, rubbing her eyes and flicking her ears. "It's—it's dissipated."

Balthier questioned her once in Vieran, and she answered him in the affirmative. Ashe turned her attention back to the opening—there was a chamber beyond, dark and damp, but she would have to step up and stoop down to pass through the entryway.

"There's something back there," she told the others.

"I don't like this, Ashe," Basch replied.

"Neither do I," she said, "but there's no other way out."


	49. Chapter XLVIII

_XLVIII._

Fran's breath was shallow—inhalations guarded, and a forceful whiff of air following each one, finally growing into a cough that rattled her to awareness. She hadn't realized she was getting dizzy.

Ashe had been waving her sword in the doorway, seeking to trigger any traps, but she froze at the sound, turning to Fran with inquisitive eyes.

"This is the last of it," Fran said. "There's nothing beyond this room. The Mist is—"

A warm hand clasped her shoulder, and she jolted. It was Balthier. He was steadying her.

"Easy," he said in Vieran.

She shook her head and found her balance. "There is something very old here," she said. "It wants out."

"Out?" asked Ashe.

"The Mist, and what it guards. What commands it." There were no words for it—not even in her own tongue. A thing had been caged here, and many beings harnessed by it, many cries from the Mist that had been captured with it, victims sentenced alongside their attacker. But their presence was veiled by another—several others. Even in death, their voices were silenced, and that silence welled up behind Fran's eyes and choked the clarity from her mind.

"Well," said Balthier, "we can't very well go back."

"It will not hurt the princess," Fran replied. She gripped his shoulder and leaned on him. "It wants her here. They all do."

"They?" asked Ashe.

"The ones who put it here. The ones who guard it." She winced, but the Mist was weakening, flowing through the doorway. "We must be quick."

Basch had ventured into the small aperture, and called from within: "Seems clear. Too dark to say for certain."

Ashelia remained fixed on Fran, vacillation in her eyes that Fran found oddly comforting. The princess had seemed to her rather stern as humans went, but even she bore that warmth—that concern—and Fran suspected she did not extend it to many in this world. Fran met her gaze and nodded her chin toward the doorway. "I will be alright."

Balthier put his arm around her, but dared not grasp her tightly—strictly a display to assure the princess. "You seem to be our lamp, Highness," he said, and Ashe heaved a sigh, turning to the opening in the wall and climbing through. A gentle blue light emanated after her.

Larsa bounced up onto the step that sectioned it off from the floor and hopped in, and Penelo stooped after him, peering in for a moment before stepping through. Balthier looked at Fran and thudded his palm against her back—a human gesture of camaraderie that Viera did not share; he had explained to her early on. She met his gaze and thumped him on the back as well, then eased her weight off his shoulder and nodded toward the wall. He released her and headed in, and she followed.

The chamber was damp and Misty, brine filling the air even after having poured out when the room's seal was breached several minutes ago. The fog billowed up to Fran's chest—it overtook Penelo and Larsa completely—and she rolled her ears inward to block out the buzz: not quite voices this close, but sentiments and sensations and just a tinge of the flavor of blood. She huffed out a breath, and the one she drew next stung sharp and deep. She sought out a wall and leaned on it.

She had hoped for a door, but the magicite-ripe walls seemed to signal a dead end. The veins glittered as Ashe walked the perimeter of the room, Basch at her side, Mist shimmering in the light around her. Larsa was running his fingers along the stone a few paces ahead of her.

"There's something carved here," he said.

Ashe leaned over him, eyes narrowed. "I don't see it."

"No, over here." He was looking over his shoulder, as though he couldn't see her, and Fran blinked back the Mist and approached the princess.

"He's over there."

"What?" Ashe asked.

"The Mist can reflect," she went on. "It—carries things: voices, pictures. It can't carry smell."

Penelo walked up to Larsa and looked around. "We're over here!" she said, and her voice echoed around the room.

Basch reached his hand toward her, and the image wisped away into a cloud of sliver and white. Ashe looked around, eyes wide.

"Here," said Fran, reaching toward the princess and thinking better of touching her. She motioned her onward, and she and Basch both followed.

"That was amazing," said Larsa.

"That was weird," Penelo replied.

The magicite in the walls cast a glow over them as Ashe approached, and she reached out to them, expression exasperated. "Is everyone real?"

They each touched their fingers to hers and then to each other's, falling into giggles as they swatted each other four or five times. Ashe turned to Basch and lightly tapped her fist against his arm, and he grinned, the princess allowing him barely a smirk in response.

"Bloody hell, Larsa." Balthier stepped into the orb of light surrounding Ashe. "If I didn't know any better, I think you were doing this on purpose."

"I would if I could," the boy replied.

Basch was looking up at the mural Larsa had found. "Look," he said, and they all turned to the wall.

Like the others, it was carved into the stone, ancient pigments filling the grooves, the stones placed carefully so that magicite illuminated the painting without running through it. It was the sword—or _a_ sword, at least: long, tapered, its hilt ornate, its pommel elaborately bejeweled. Lines engraved at its back exploded outward like a starburst, and between them, unpainted, hovered the same eyes that had haunted the portrait of Raithwall in the previous corridor. Marring the mural—placed right at the center of the sword's blade—was a large, conspicuous keyhole.

"A key," said Balthier. "Of course we need a key."

"Did we miss one somewhere back there?" Ashe asked.

"It's a little late to go looking."

Penelo turned to Fran. "Fran, can you do it?"

Fran's head ached. The Mist was strong, and Penelo's voice barely registered over the din. She met the girl's eyes, then looked to the keyhole blankly.

"You opened that door in the dungeon," Penelo insisted.

Fran stepped toward the mural. "I can try."

"She can only toy with magicite locks," said Balthier. He had shifted his weight in the manner that always signaled doubt, but he was right. She didn't sense any receptors for Mist within the wall.

All the same, she cast a glyph over it, Mist swirling, shimmering rose-hued light flashing the sigil in the air and pressing it to the stone. Something ancient bound the mechanism—familiar, she thought, but her mind was too clouded to remember where, or even when. A few more careful passes, whispered words—it was useless: she had nothing to unlock.

"No good?" Ashe asked.

Fran stepped back, shook her head. "It needs a key. Something with a similar charge. I thought I felt it earlier, but it all blends together in this place."

"Wait." Ashelia's face brightened, and it almost seemed she might laugh for a moment, before doubt clouded the expression. "We brought the dagger with us, didn't we?"

Larsa bounced up, pulling the little knife from his belt. "Let me try!"

"Larsa!" Balthier grabbed him by the collar.

"Ow!"

"The last thing we need is this entire place collapsing on us because we've angered the resident demons. Special blood only."

Larsa loosened—released a sigh—and held out the blade.

Ashe took it. "Sorry, Larsa. He's got a point."

"I know."

Ashelia stepped up to the wall, spreading her feet a bit and bracing herself. Basch drew his sword, and Penelo and Balthier followed suit. Slowly, Fran reached for her own. She was in no condition to fight.

Ashe eased the dagger into the socket until a small click echoed through the Mist around them. The grinding of stone-against-stone followed, and the dagger turned even after Ashe pulled her hand from its hilt, winding slowly in a full circle before sinking into the wall entirely. Every vein of magicite in the room blazed bright, and the workings in the wall triggered the panels on either side of the painting to draw back and slide away, Mist pouring into the shallow chamber beyond.

The humans all coughed, waving hands before their faces, but Fran inhaled the musty air deeply, the Mist dissipating only slightly, settling lower to the floor and allowing a faint breath of freshness that lit her senses like a sliver of light in the dark. She stepped away from the group, peering around the mural that now stood as a partition between the two rooms. The magicite in the walls of the previous chamber had begun to slowly fade, but the room beyond laid in darkness, only the stench of the Mist that had flooded it to lend it any shape. Fran thought she saw something gleam in the shadows.

Ashe stepped up beside her, and the edge of the nearest wall flickered, streaks of magicite glowing. "Anything?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," said Fran.

Ashe drew her sword and stepped forward, Basch at her side, Penelo close behind. The Mist poured in around Larsa as Balthier gripped his shoulder to keep him from following.

The light followed the princess, the Mist parting before her feet, and the room was a small one—only a few meters deep—and Ashe reached its only occupant within seconds:

A slim stone pedestal stood against the back wall, the bricks laid behind it flaring with more magicite than the rest in the room combined. Out of the pedestal stood the hilt of a sword—level with Ashelia's heart—but the blade appeared firmly embedded in the stone.

Fran ventured forward, sheathing her blade, and Balthier followed after her, Larsa bounding ahead to Penelo.

"How'd get it in there?" the girl was asking.

"I'm more concerned with getting it out," Ashe replied.

Balthier seemed to have something to say—he always had something to say—but a flash of crimson light from the Midlight Shard in Ashelia's pocket cut him off. Ashe lurched back, clutching at the stone and flinging it from her pocket onto the floor—she winced as she did so, shaking out her hands, but the heat did not appear have done any damage. The Shard emitted a sharp ring that resonated with the blade, sending violent vibrations all down its length until the pedestal cracked and shook apart, falling to the floor in chunks. The sword came to a thundering crash with it, but Fran hardly heard it over the squeal in her head.

She pulled her ears down and pressed them inward, but the screech was internal—she could not escape it. Her left foot slid back, lifted, sought purchase and found none, but she fell against a firm arm that held her up—Balthier—and she steadied, planted both feet and focused her eyes at the expense of her other senses. She laid a hand on his shoulder—needed only the touch to keep her bearings—and he released her, but kept near.

The shifting of stone sounded in the corner: two walls parting, revealing a narrow stone staircase that spiraled upward beyond the reach of Ashelia's magicite haze.

The dust settled, the Mist cooled, and the grand sword they had sought all along laid bare before them, but when Ashe bent toward it, she reached instead for the Midlight Shard—now dim at her feet—tapping it once and then twice to ensure it would not burn, and then grasping it, pulling it close, holding it tight with both hands. Fran felt Balthier let out a breath, and then the raucous fog snapped silent—snuffed like a flame—and the world felt dark around her, and the shadows had eyes.


	50. Chapter XLIX

_XLIX._

"Sure is big," said Penelo.

"And shiny," Larsa added.

Ashe stepped forward, pulling one hand from the Midlight Shard—she had to force it free—and stooped to pick up the sword. It was heavy—a section of the blade was cutout, leaving a gleaming outline of its shape, either edge razored to a silvery gleam, but it felt as though it were forged of solid steel. Ashe could not identify the metal—it seemed to swirl more like marble than any alloy she could name—but no one else stepped forward with any suggestions, and so she made no mention of it.

"How can we know it works?" Basch asked.

Ashe strained her arm, lifting the blade and turning it slowly in the light that emanated from the walls around her. It demanded two hands, but she could not bear to release the nethicite.

"You should try it on the Midlight Shard," Penelo suggested.

"What?" Ashe replied.

She shrugged. "You know. See if it can really bust up nethicite or not."

"It's no use to us, after all," Balthier added. Then, giving the princess a glare: "Right?"

She examined the blade of the great sword, and then said, quietly, "It seems reckless."

At this, Larsa's eyes lit up, and he turned to Penelo with a smile. "Penelo—do you still have the nethicite I gave you?"

She averted her gaze, reaching across her body and gripping her forearm. "Well, yes…"

"Come on," he coaxed. "This is important."

Penelo slowly offered up the small stone to Ashe. "Alright."

"Are you sure?" Ashe flustered slightly, forcing the Midlight Shard into her pocket and taking the nethicite delicately.

"Go ahead," Penelo assured her with a nod.

Ashe studied the tiny rock, glancing up briefly to see both Penelo and Larsa looking on with wide eyes. Basch had stepped away from her, and Balthier had folded his arms. Only Fran looked elsewhere, her gaze fixed on the staircase in the corner, her ears curled inward from the edges as though blocking out all sound. Ashelia set the nethicite at her feet and made ready to strike.

The sword was more manageable in the strength of both arms, but it still threatened to pitch her off balance as no weapon she had wielded in her time with the Resistance ever had. She held her ground and swung, the weight of it rendering its fall all the more effective, but the resounding chop—for all the Mist it swirled in its wake, and for all the echoes it bounced off the walls—did nothing more than divide the stone in two. Sparse fragments of light sparked out of the wound, but they soon fizzled against the temple floor, leaving the nethicite bare and glum before her.

Ashe leaned in—Penelo and Larsa did, too—inspecting the shards, and mumbled a weakened, "What?"

"Wonderful," Balthier groaned, dropping his arms to his sides and rolling his eyes. "All it does is make more."

Ashe shook her head. "But…"

"Maybe it only works on the real stuff," Larsa suggested, approaching the stone and looking it over. "This is artificial."

Penelo, too, knelt beside the broken halves, taking them carefully in her hands and piecing them together hopelessly. She seemed undaunted, however, and held a chunk out to Larsa, who took it with a smile.

"Why not try the Midlight Shard?" Basch asked, stepping closer to Ashelia. "It's done us no good so far—no point in keeping it."

"We don't know yet that it's completely useless," Ashe insisted.

"Is it's use really something we're ready for?" he asked back.

She took in a breath, removing the Midlight Shard from her pocket once more and turning it slightly in her palm, gazing into it as though some excuse would produce itself from within the hazy shadows of the stone. For a moment, she almost thought she could hear something—something sensible, and simple—but it was only a rock.

"Come on," said Penelo. "There's nothing left in it."

Ashe gritted her teeth and gripped her sword. Slowly—hesitantly—she set the Midlight Shard on the stone floor before her, taking a moment to steady it as though it might roll away once the chance came upon it. Then she stepped back and readied the sword, only to halt when the stone emitted a faint glow at her feet. The blade lowered once more, and she took yet another step back.

"What's it doing?" she asked, cursing the pang of urgency in her voice.

Larsa tilted his head, but offered no answer, and Balthier advanced slowly on the nethicite, eliciting an even greater glow from it, as well as a subtle rumble of sound that seemed akin to the ringing of metal against metal. He knelt beside it, watching the halo of light that surrounded it pulse brighter and softer, a twisted, unholy heartbeat, then looked up to Fran, who had silently approached from the opposite side.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

"It fears the sword," she confirmed.

Ashelia allowed the tip of Raithwall's blade to rest on the floor. "Then there is some power left in it after all?"

"So it would have us think," said Fran.

"We can't just walk into Archades and chop up the Dusk Shard if we aren't sure the sword will work," Balthier went on. "We have to test it. No point in relying on something we can't trust to get the job done."

"Fine," Ashe replied, planting her feet once more and raising the blade.

The others backed away again, eyes wary but expectant, and she took in a breath, tensing her shoulders and readying herself for the impact.

"What if it explodes?" Penelo said suddenly.

Yet again, Ashe lowered the sword.

"It can't if there's nothing in it," Larsa assured her.

Balthier met Ashe's gaze. "Go on."

The princess looked them all over—the disruptions had passed from irritating to frustrating, and now bordered on anxiety-inducing—and they gave her no further resistance. She lifted the sword, digging her toes into the gritty floor to balance out the weight of it, then rested her eyes on the small rock before her, its surface glowing faintly, pleading with her to yield. Slowly, the light seemed to expand, rising high and billowing out before calming, swirling itself into a vaguely familiar form. Ashe's eyes followed the Mist upwards, widening as they recognized the figure they beheld, sending a coat of cold sweat to her palms that nearly caused her to drop the great weapon that she held above her shoulder.

Rasler.

He stared back at her, a cold, ghoulish image that undulated with Mist. She studied him—not really him, she knew, but why would the Mist imitate him? Why would the Midlight Shard bring him to her? The others did not seem to see him, watching expectantly, each of them still, waiting. Quickly, he thinned at the edges, the Mist dissipating into the darkness around him—and then he was gone.

Ashe stepped back, the weight of the sword pulling her, and all at once it felt loose in her hands, her limbs suddenly lighter, as though water had replaced the blood within them. She could feel the eyes of her companions on her, and the blade seemed to ring, resonate, hum softly in her ear. She blinked hard, and swung.

The blade fell, a resounding clank flying from it and reverberating off the stone walls of the shrine, but the Midlight Shard was spared, rumbling slightly a few inches from the strike point beside it. Ashe straightened, looking to all of her comrades with a sharp intensity that for a moment seemed to beckon antagonism—to dare them to disagree.

"We don't need to test it," she stated, wielding an expression that warned against any opposition. "It'll work."

Balthier glowered at her, turning his back and walking away, muttering over his shoulder, "If it ever finds its mark."

Fran followed after him, though Penelo and Larsa seemed hesitant to leave her side. They turned only when she loosened her rigid grip on the hilt of the sword, letting the tip of the blade tap the stone floor and scrape against the rock. She bent and took up the nethicite, and Basch took a few steps after the others before drawing to a halt, turning to glance at her. A halo of light still radiated round her, the magicite in the walls flickering with her every movement, and Basch hovered just at the edge of it, and she knew he would go no farther without her.

She started forward, moving past him, sensing him take up a slow stride behind her, but she felt for a moment that another presence accompanied them, and she scanned the Mist as it illuminated, clouds rolling at her shins, billowing out to her sides and closing in behind her. There was nothing to be seen as she ascended the spiral staircase, but she could swear she heard an echo bouncing in the distance. She could swear it was her name.


	51. Chapter L

_L._

Balthier was exasperated but not surprised to find Larsa sleeping conspicuously closer to Penelo than he had been when the princess's coterie turned in for the night. The fire glowed low, and he took a moment to build it up a bit before kneeling and shaking the boy's shoulder. He rolled onto his back and lifted a knee, the shadow rising over the flap of the tent that sheltered them.

"Larsa," Balthier whispered.

He laid an arm over his eyes and groaned.

"Come on. It's important."

The boy sat up, blinking against the fire, looking from one sleeping form to the next before turning quizzical eyes to Balthier. He rose and motioned Larsa forward.

"Come on."

The sun had fallen quickly, and a sprinkling of snow with it, and the sky was the blackest black overhead when they exited the bivouac—dawn was not far off.

"What's wrong?" Larsa asked in Archadian.

They had walked clear of the others' earshot, the small encampment glowing a pale orange at the base of the temple.

"Wrong?" Balthier replied in the same language. "Since when are you so cynical?"

"It's the middle of the night. Just tell me."

Balthier rolled his eyes and continued walking down the winding mountainside path, the boy struggling to match his pace. "Vows."

"Vows?"

"Or guilt. What have you."

"That's not an answer."

Balthier withheld a sigh. He didn't have an answer. These days, he never had an answer. So he resorted to his usual escape tactic: he smirked and said, "Well, I suppose a little cynicism will do you good, with the road you're headed down."

Larsa looked up to him, one eyebrow raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"An Archadian, a Dalmascan, and a Rozarrian, all in the same room, no weapons drawn." He heaved it out in a deep breath, then added, "Quite the talent you've got there."

"I'm not going to get mixed up in politics," said Larsa. "Everyone who tries ends up miserable—and I'm no good at it, anyway."

"Sure you're not," Balthier shot back.

"I'm _not_ ," Larsa insisted. "I got us all in one room, but the war's still on all the same."

"Ending a war isn't exactly easy, but that hasn't stopped you from trying. Admit it, Larsa: you were born for this."

"Vayne was born for this."

He glanced down at him, slightly amused, but did not let his pace falter. "Does it really scare you that much?"

"This isn't false modesty," Larsa answered. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"You've already begun," he replied. "You got a Dalmascan to work with you—and not just any Dalmascan. Ashe doesn't just go around trusting everyone she meets. Hell, you even got a Rozarrian onboard. By all rights, he should have killed you the moment you suggested it." He paused for a moment. Larsa was silent, his expression grim. "So that's it," Balthier said after a moment, and the boy glanced up at him.

"What?"

"Larsa," he said with a sigh, "I was a soldier at fourteen, a Judge at eighteen, and a fugitive at twenty—I know how it feels to grow up too fast."

"Then why aren't _you_ trying to save the world?"

"You think I'm not?"

They rounded a corner then, and an Atomos faded into view—it had left the fleet scarcely half an hour ago, landing clandestinely among the fir trees that cluttered the mountain path, and Balthier, sleepless, sitting on a stone outside the tent and watching the stars, had hardly been surprised when its pilot arrived at the camp.

"Gabranth!" Larsa left Balthier's side at a gallop the moment he laid eyes on the armored figure in the distance.

He crashed into him before the Judge could even respond, arms around his waist in a desperate embrace, but Balthier made no effort to pick up his pace. He hoped the boy would go without a struggle; Gabranth was good with him—could inspire his obedience better than even his own family could—but Larsa had grown more stubborn than Balthier could ever remember him, and he was old enough now to demand an explanation, and to understand when the one offered wasn't sufficient.

"Easy there," Gabranth said with a laugh, mussing the boy's hair. "I thought you were getting too old for this."

"I was," Larsa answered, still clinging to him. "I think I'm younger now."

"That would explain a lot."

This got his attention, and he drew back and looked up to the Judge. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

"Worry me?" Gabranth replied. "You scared the living hell out of me."

Larsa turned his eyes to the ground and shook his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I won't do it again."

Gabranth didn't seem to believe him—the man could be painfully transparent, even with the helm obscuring his expression—but he turned to Balthier without addressing it. "Sorry about all this."

"No need," Balthier replied. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

Larsa turned to him. "You're sending me back?"

"The longer you stay here," Gabranth explained, "the more you endanger the princess."

"Nothing personal," Balthier added.

"Can't I even say goodbye to the others?" the boy pleaded.

"Bergan is with the fleet," said Gabranth. "It's only a matter of time before he realizes I'm down here, and then he'll have no reason not to search the summit."

Larsa's shoulders drooped briefly, but his voice nevertheless calmed. "Right."

"Always eager to stir up trouble, that one," Balthier groaned.

"Especially now that he knows you're here," Gabranth replied. "You should keep the princess hidden a while longer."

"Somehow I don't think she'll be too happy about that," said Balthier.

"He means to kill you both."

"I thought I had a live bounty."

"Vayne's command overrules Cid's."

Now Larsa stepped in: "Why would Vayne want Balthier dead?"

Balthier smirked, shoulders hitching with a subdued laugh, but he didn't speak.

"Your brother must look at the world with more caution now," Gabranth told the boy. "There are reasons behind his decisions, whether we want to understand them or not."

"But what harm is Balthier to Archadia?" Larsa insisted.

A laugh escaped, despite Balthier's best efforts. "And here I thought you were so bright for your age!" Larsa scowled, and he continued: "Come on, kid. Don't worry about me. I've handled worse problems than Vayne."

"Don't hurt yourself," Gabranth groaned.

Balthier rolled his eyes. "I'm not an army brat anymore, Gabranth. I'll be fine."

"Don't flatter yourself, either."

And now he smirked, shifting to conceal his discomfort. "You've got your brother's sense of humor."

At this, Larsa's eyes widened, and he looked up to Gabranth with sudden eagerness that belied his age. "Won't you at least go talk to Basch?"

The Judge shook his head. "I doubt I have anything to say that he wants to hear."

Balthier blinked slowly, folding his arms. He had made the same suggestion when negotiating Larsa's extraction, and met the same response.

"You're not working for my father anymore," the boy went on. "I can give you orders now."

Gabranth tensed, armor creaking as he shifted, and Balthier thought he sensed a sigh behind the helm. "Vayne has given me command of the _Alexander_."

Larsa tilted his head.

"He may decide to make it a permanent change," Gabranth added.

Larsa gazed at him with a deep, confounding sorrow, his eyes as round as they had seemed in his infancy. "Drace can convince him, can't she?" he asked.

Gabranth stood very still. "I'm afraid Drace has been expelled from the Judiciary."

"What?" Larsa exclaimed.

"A lot has happened, Larsa. We can talk lat—"

"Drace is the best we've got!" he insisted. "And I—I can choose my own guards. I'm old enough now. Vayne will listen to me."

"Larsa—"

"What did she do, anyway? What could she have done?"

Gabranth drew in a breath—deep enough that his armor creaked with it—and Balthier stared at him, eyes sharp. "You can't be serious," he said.

"Now is not the time," Gabranth replied.

"Gods know she was the type to do it," Balthier went on, "but I never would have expected her to get caught."

"What?" Larsa demanded, looking from Balthier to Gabranth and back again. His hair swayed into his eyes with the momentum. "What did she do?"

"We need to get you back, Larsa," Gabranth said.

"If you don't tell me, she will," he replied.

"I am sure your lord brother—"

"Why is he doing this?"

Gabranth shook his head. "He only wants what's best for you."

"He has no idea what's best for me!"

"Larsa…"

And the boy balled his fists, digging his boots into the snow. "I'm not going back unless you stay with me."

Gabranth shook his head. "You know that's not my decision."

"Then make him understand!" Larsa begged. "What else is there for me to go back to?"

"You can't control the world, Larsa," Gabranth explained, voice suddenly firm. "Disappointment is a fact of life."

Larsa's eyes began to water faintly. "I'm not disappointed, Gabranth! I'm _scared_ …"

This nearly did the trick—Balthier watched Gabranth closely, seeing something of Basch behind the steel: some softness not in his movement, but in his stillness.

"You know I'd never let anything happen to you," the Judge said.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Larsa replied.

"You have to let others make their own choices."

Larsa stared at him, clearly unconvinced, but seemingly out of excuses.

"Don't worry about the rest of the flock," Balthier assured him, stepping closer. "I'll watch over them."

"The longer you're gone," Gabranth added, "the more Vayne worries about you, and that doesn't sit well for anyone. We're hoping if I bring you back to Vayne, he'll return things to normal."

"How can things ever be normal without Drace?" Larsa countered.

The remaining warmth in Gabranth's tone extinguished. "Larsa, your brother means to find you at all costs—I'd prefer to do this quietly."

Balthier took the cue: "You're better off with Gabranth than you are with me, brat. Besides, we need someone to keep an eye on Archadia for us."

Suddenly, a fourth voice spoke up from a few yards up the mountain path: "You're leaving?"

They all turned. Penelo stood at a distance that she obviously only kept for fear of the unfamiliar Judge at Larsa's side. She had spoken Archadian exceptionally well, her Dalmascan accent simplistic but painfully adorable when handling the elegant words. But her expression conveyed a wounded sense of betrayal that cast a pall over the gathering.

"I guess I am," Larsa answered, stepping toward her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't look so put out," Balthier added. "You must have seen it coming."

She advanced a few steps—blocky, restrained, halting parallel to Balthier. "But he's safe with us," she insisted. "You look after him just fine."

"Not by choice," Balthier countered, rolling his eyes and turning to Gabranth, who let Larsa approach the girl without objection.

The Judge was staring at her—Balthier had learned long ago to recognize the expressions Judicial helmets were meant to conceal. Basch occasionally stared at her, too; he seemed to believe no one had noticed it, but Balthier had, and now—with both brothers fixated on the same stranger—he wondered if Penelo needed protection more than Larsa did.

Gabranth spoke: "Penelo, I take it?"

She nodded. "Gabranth?"

He nodded as well. "Forgive me for saying so, but I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Good things, I hope."

"Always. I'm afraid I must relieve you of your escort."

Her eyes turned downward briefly. "I understand."

Larsa took her hand with an unsteady smile and spoke in Dalmascan. "You can come if you'd like."

This got a small laugh out of her, but she shook her head, replying in the same tongue. "That might cause more problems than the world is ready for."

"Ivalice has never turned down a challenge," he replied.

"Larsa…" She kneeled down, a hand on each of his shoulders. "You're still my hero, you know."

He smiled, and she drew him in close, squeezing him tightly.

"You just take care of yourself, alright?" she whispered.

Balthier stepped away, but hesitated, intent on dragging Penelo along even if she changed her mind.

"Alright," Larsa told her. But when she released him and turned to leave, he lurched forward a step. "Penelo!"

She turned back to him. "Hm?"

"Uh…"

He didn't seem to know what do with his hands, suddenly. He glanced to the side, then looked at his feet. Penelo stepped closer and kneeled before him. "What is it?"

He hesitated a second more, then closed his eyes and briefly pressed his lips against hers, then stepped back, said goodbye with a staunch, uncomfortable nod, and walked away. Gabranth looked back and forth once or twice from the frozen and dumbfounded girl to the terrified and retreating boy, but ultimately found nothing to protest and turned to leave. Balthier stood for a moment, a hand on his hip, staring after the prince—and Penelo, speechless, fell back into the snow and laughed.


	52. Chapter LI

_LI._

Balthier—always the pirate. Basch shared in Ashelia's contempt when he told them he had sent Larsa off to his brother, but Basch at least managed to keep quiet about it. Not the best way to go about the situation, perhaps, but it was the best thing to do, for Larsa and for all of them. Half the fleet had already withdrawn, and Penelo had been allowed a proper farewell—she out of all of them needed it most. And Gabranth—

His brother's visits during Basch's imprisonment had provided a grudging comfort, if only because he so missed hearing Landisian spoken to him, but he had learned well enough—however hard Gabranth tried to hide it—that the Judge loved Larsa, and Basch had no doubt that he would watch over the boy, and would watch Vayne just as closely.

All the same, the trek back to the summit was a somber one. Ashe was not speaking to Balthier—surely, she knew Larsa was better off, that he would have to go some time, but she seemed to enjoy being angry with the pirate, and he seemed to enjoy it in return. Penelo was also withdrawn, her eyes down on her boots or else up on the fleet. And Fran was silent as the snow, but that was nothing new.

Ashe bore the weight of the new sword well—no stoop to her shoulders, no lag to her hips, not even a hitch of extra force in her step. It occurred to him—finally—that the hardiness she had adopted in the two years since he last saw her seemed so natural because it had been there all along, simmering beneath the surface, a strength she had always harbored, but never in her privileged upbringing had any cause to use. She looked different, but so too did she seem exactly the same.

Penelo was a different story. He was glad the snow had hindered her—resigned her to following always behind him, walking in his steps, which he had consciously spaced closer together for her ease. In the jungle, and on the beach, and everywhere else before that, she had kept some distance from him, ahead or off to the side, always visible, always the illusion just at the edge of his sight, and the Mist in the temple had taken full advantage of it. She looked so much like her—even her mannerisms, her gestures and her gait sparked the memory of his wife: romping, bouncing, everything an excitement, a hidden joy. In the temple, he had even thought he heard her voice, and when he turned to see her, the visage swirled in the Mist, and a silvery sheen revealed only Penelo, distracted by something, paying him no mind.

It made him ache.

However, she ran up beside him as they rounded a turn in the stony path, sucking in a gasp. Black pillars of smoke rose from the settlement, streaking across the overcast sky and blowing into the distance on the wind, away from the fleet.

"My gods…" Ashe breathed.

Snow-covered trees hindered their view, but Basch didn't hesitate. "We should go around."

"They're pacifists," she snapped, heel skidding in the snow as she turned to face him, kicking up powder.

"And it's too late to offer any help," he countered. "This is political suicide. Let Vayne reap the consequences."

Ashe pressed her lips together and huffed out a breath through her nose, then picked up her pace, Penelo jogging at her side.

"Princess!" Basch called after her.

Balthier was smirking. "Good old Dalmascan fire."

And he took off after them, Fran silent at his side. Basch followed.

Much of the village still stood when they reached it, but it had been cleared of residents, save for the dead ones left behind in the hasty exodus. A few tents still burned, and several trunks had been tossed into the snow, their contents—mostly woven blankets and wooden dishes—scattered in meager travesty, a light snow gathering on their surfaces, yet melting into the still-warm bodies intermingled with them. Avoiding the sights of a small gathering of soldiers who busied themselves boarding an Atomos to return to the fleet, Ashelia and her retinue made for the great cathedral outside of the settlement.

The cathedral doors stood wide open—splintered, barely hanging from their ornate hinges—and the inner doors of the foyer fared no better. Several of the pews in the great hall had been shattered, their polished pieces glinting in the light of the iron chandeliers that hung unscathed overhead, but the chamber seemed a shade too dark, despite the gray light of day that shone through the ravaged windows. Hundreds of candles had once lit this room—lined on tables at the front and back and flanks—but they had been toppled, many tapestries singed in their wake, though the soldiers had at least been wise enough to extinguish the flames before they could spread. Ornately carved wooden columns held up the roof—had those given out, the whole structure might have toppled.

Ashe drew to a halt at the back of the room, Basch tight at her side. Down the aisle, before the cracked altar, surrounded by shattered glass and torn tapestries, stood a Judge, his back to them and his sword drawn. Archadian soldiers hovered near the room's perimeter—only four of them, it seemed—focused intently on destroying the last treasures of the temple and unaware of the group's presence.

Basch gripped Ashelia's wrist, but she shook him off, gave him a glare. Balthier stepped close to her other side and glowered at her as sharply as she had at Basch.

"Princess," he whispered.

Too late. The Judge glanced over his shoulder with a small screech of steel, helm facing Ashelia.

"Ah, our vagrant princess." He turned fully now, his armor creaking as his feet rose and clanking as they fell, and there behind him the crumpled, bleeding body of the Gran Kiltias came into view—still and ashen, devoid of life. "Too late and to their sorrow do those who misplace their trust in gods learn their fate," the Judge continued, apparently unschooled in the Dalmascan language and—Basch suspected—unwilling to speak it anyway. "It's a shame such fools go down in history as martyrs."

"You bastard," Ashe sneered, mirroring his use of Archadian. The four soldiers at the chamber's flanks advanced slowly. "This is neutral territory!"

"This war can only be won in absolute," he insisted, halting his approach a few yards before her. "Those who don't surrender to us are opposed to us. Neutrality is only a matter of semantics."

"Honestly," said Balthier, "why even bother trying to justify yourself anymore? Can't you at least have the decency to admit you're a self-serving jackass?"

"I suppose I ought to know better than to expect etiquette of a pirate," the Judge replied.

Balthier smirked. "And I ought to know better than to expect competence of a Judge."

And he laughed now, a metallic sound. "Fair, if nothing else. I'll admit you're a hard man to keep up with, though I must thank you for providing me with such ample entertainment as of late."

"I do try."

"Now, why not be civil and let Her Highness admit defeat with honor?"

Basch leaned closer to Ashe's side, and noted Penelo doing the same, but neither drew steel just yet.

"Stay away from her!" Penelo warned, her Archadian shaky. "She's trying to settle this without killing people. Why do you want to get in her way?"

"Sacrifices must be made," said the Judge. "It is better that they be deserving."

"The Gran Kiltias was deserving?" Ashe growled.

"For aiding and abetting a traitor to the Empire?" he scoffed in reply. "More deserving than most I have brought to justice."

"Do you truly have no concept of peace outside of submission?" the princess demanded. "The longer you oppress your conquered subjects, the more they will grow to hate you."

"And you're no exception, are you?" he shot back. "Your lust for revenge has led you all too swiftly to Raithwall's sword. If you know what's good for you, you'll hand it over. Vayne may take it as an offering of apology and spare your life."

"Apology?"

"For kidnapping his only heir, of course."

She glowered, faintly trembling. "We did no harm to Larsa. If anything, we rescued him."

"And just any criminal knows what's best for him?"

"I am no more a criminal than Vayne!"

The Judge's hand jerked subtly, lifting his blade upward and then outward—a quick containment of his ire that nevertheless caused both Basch and Penelo to reach for their swords, and the four Archadians surrounding them to mirror the gesture. Balthier seemed utterly disgusted.

"With your people at his mercy," the Judge growled, "you would do well to speak more highly of him."

"I will speak of him only what he has earned," Ashe snapped, "and in sending his troops to massacre a harmless village, he has lost any respect I ever may have owed him."

The Arcadian soldiers that encroached on them finally closed the gap at the splintered doors and grew still, their prey surrounded, but their orders not yet given.

The Judge stepped forward. "You underestimate the severity of your crime. The treaty your father signed in Nalbina sold you to Vayne in marriage—perhaps if you were his family, you would treat Lord Larsa as the nobility he is, and not use him for your own selfish gain."

"My father would do no such thing to me, and neither would I to Larsa!"

He released a biting laugh, then proceeded forward as he spoke, clipping the consonants in true highborn Archadian fashion. "Hereditary treachery plagues your line—it is unfit to rule a household, let alone a country. Your people will rejoice more in your death than in your ascension."

Balthier drew his sword with such swiftness that Basch didn't even noticed his hand dart to the hilt. "Back off, Bergan," he warned. "I'm the one you want."

The Judge tilted his head. "Arrogant as ever, I see. How lucky, that I shall kill two birds with one stone."

"Cid will have your head, if I don't first."

"You always did have to learn the hard way."

The two quickly met blades, Bergan striking first and Balthier easily matching his speed, and the four soldiers that surrounded the others descended upon them. One fell immediately, impaled by his hapless charge, the victim of ill luck and Basch's extensive skill, but the others fared better, forcing their opponents into a vulnerable cluster. Basch had faced this in battle many times—no room for footwork, no range of motion—but he knew how break it, and apparently so did Fran.

She lashed out at the nearest soldier and engaged him in a match of dodging and parrying that gave her comrades a moment in which to catch the other two off-guard. One soldier lunged at the group, meeting Ashe's blade. Basch and Penelo charged the third soldier, finding him skilled enough to ward both of them off for several blows, but Basch hacked into his shoulder all too easily, nearly decapitating him before he hit the ground.

Balthier and Bergan sparred with brutal force, throwing one another against the remaining pews and scattered piles of debris. Both had excellent form—such an Archadian thing, Basch lamented, to look proper while killing each other—and Basch thought for a moment that if the pirate didn't get himself killed in the next few minutes, he should ask after his battle experience; he was quite good.

However, Ashe was still fighting off the last soldier—Fran had dispatched her foe with the same fluid silence that carried all of her actions. Just as Basch and Penelo turned to aid the princess, Fran hooked a long leg through the soldier's elbow, disabling his sword arm and pulling it far enough to lay bare his throat. Her sword was swift.

"I _had_ it," Ashe told her.

"I don't doubt it," Fran replied. "But I believe we're supposed to be protecting you."

Ashe looked away, eyes trained on Balthier and Bergan as they disappeared into the rear chamber of the cathedral, swords still swinging. "With all due respect," she replied, "you'll have to catch me first." And she dashed forward, a hop over the fallen soldier and then a gallop down the aisle.

"Wait up!" Penelo shouted, barreling after her.

Basch heaved a sigh, and Fran met his eyes.

"Is this common among human royals?"

He blinked. Ashe. Larsa. Rasler. "It seems so," he told her.

And he thought she released just the faintest sigh before taking up a jog after the others. He followed.


	53. Chapter LII

_LII._

Compared to the mess in the temple's hall and vestibule, the small back room seemed fairly well-treated—until Balthier and Bergan got to it. A gash now marred the rich carpet, the casualty of a blade dragged across it and upwards in defense, and one row of curtains hung loose from their post, exposing the jagged mountainside that dropped off at the building's edge. The blows were hard, the force nearly enough to throw Balthier from his feet. He was quick, but Bergan was strong—fifty pounds heavier, easily. And the armor: Balthier knew its weaknesses, but they were few and difficult to expose, and the steel was strong, and lent only more weight to Bergan's strikes. He was working on a spot beneath the Judge's arm, at a joint in the plate; it was weak enough now that his next blow might pierce it, and if not that one, then the next.

Balthier was gaining the upper hand, dodging a slash and using Bergan's momentum to slam him into a corner hard enough to knock his blade to the floor, but a shout stole his attention as he kicked Bergan's sword away.

"Balthier!"

He turned: the princess. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself caught?" he demanded.

And then Bergan laid a crushing grip on his wrist, holding his blade at bay, and with the other arm he shoved the pirate back against the high rising windows that overlooked the steep ravine beyond. A panel of glass shattered, and Balthier squinted against the shower of shards.

"Ungrateful to the end," Bergan sneered.

Ashe lunged, forcing her sword into the weak spot in Bergan's armor and striking flesh—all that work, and she got the blood, Balthier lamented. She received an elbow to the nose for her efforts, releasing the hilt of her blade and falling to the floor, but she had bought Balthier enough time to gather his wits.

Bergan still held the pirate's right hand fast, rendering his sword useless, but Ashelia's blade remained in the Judge's side, an almost comically convenient lever. Bergan's right hand darted toward the wound, and Balthier's left followed it, grabbing hold of the sword. Bending low and digging his shoulder into the Judge's stomach, he flipped him over his back and through the broken window—breaking another in the process—and flicked his own sword downward against Bergan's arm, causing him to release his grasp and fall freely to the icy river below. A resounding series of echoing _clanks_ rose throughout the mountains.

The others had arrived amid the commotion, Basch helping Ashe up as she wiped a considerable amount of blood from her nose. Fran joined Balthier at the window, leaning out carefully to better see the result of Bergan's final battle. Balthier tried to slow his breath as Ashe stepped to his other side, sheathing Bergan's sword at her hip—he had taken hers down the cliff with him.

Fran turned to Balthier, and he met her eyes for only a moment before she glanced over his shoulder and back to him—glanced with her eyes alone, her head perfectly still. He traced her gaze to his other side, intent on giving the princess a few choice words, but they left him the moment he saw her, and instead he could only wipe some blood from Ashe's chin. She swiped his hand away.

"Don't think you're getting a discount for that," he said.

"Don't think I expected one," she replied.

"This will cost us dearly, you know," Basch pointed out, glancing over the ledge.

"Yeah," added Penelo. "We gotta get out of here."

"Agreed," said Ashe, striding slowly back to the cathedral's main hall. "But it's a long road back to the ship."

"And we're low on supplies," Balthier muttered.

The silence of the great chamber grew denser in the wake of the brawl, the cloven altar at the front a reminder of the treachery imposed on the settlement, the splintered double doors at the back an echo of the peace that had shattered. Penelo turned her gaze upward, studying the chandeliers and engraved wooden beams that remained intact.

"So, what are you saying?" she asked, stepping lightly, half on her toes, as though afraid to disrupt the stillness. "We steal? Haven't they been through enough?"

"There's more food here than people," Balthier explained, not bothering to look at her.

"But they helped us."

"We won't take more than we need," Ashe stepped in. She stood before the altar, staring at the Gran Kiltias.

Balthier studied her. She was still, her hands loose, blood smeared over the back of one wrist where she kept wiping at her nose. Her eyes seemed too cold in such a warm face. She set her jaw and crossed the room, looking over the wreckage as though in search of something, and then swooned a little, but hid it well. Balthier looked to Basch and saw that he noticed, and figured she'd accept his help over a pirate's if she needed it. She stooped and took hold of some fabric on the floor, shaking it free of glass and splinters.

But then Basch turned away from the princess and looked intently at Penelo, who was still biting her lip, but seemed to accept the situation. Basch's eyes grew soft, the deep olive green catching the white light of the snowy sky beyond the empty window panes, though the girl did not seem to notice, too focused on the crunched glass of a hundred votive jars that laid at her feet. And then he looked away—first to the side, and then almost shaking his head, he turned back to Ashe. Balthier tilted his head.

Fran edged near the Gran Kiltias, her ears perked warily, her eyes trained on the withered corpse, slouched in a puddle of blood at her feet. "Why would they do this?" she asked.

Balthier spoke quietly: "He didn't have to be a threat to be perceived as one."

Fran shook her head, but said nothing.

"Shouldn't we do something?" asked Penelo, holding her small fists to her mouth.

Ashe approached with a large panel of drapery that had fallen from the temple windows, and she spread it out in the air before her, laying it over the lifeless form. "Their burial rights are sacred to them," she said. "It's better that we leave it to them."

Basch looked over the ruined temple with a heavy sigh. "At least Larsa didn't have to see any of this."

"So what now, Princess?" Balthier asked. "If you won't destroy your own rock, does that mean we're going after Vayne's?"

"I suppose so," she answered. Her nose had stopped bleeding, the blood smeared over her mouth mostly wiped clean.

"Maybe it's a good thing you didn't chop up the Midlight Shard," Penelo suggested. "This is all getting out of hand—even if it's worthless, we can at least use it to scare them a little."

"I doubt we can scare them enough to get anywhere near the Dusk Shard," said Basch.

"Does anybody even know where it is?" Penelo asked.

"I can venture a guess," Balthier replied. "Draklor Laboratory, in Archades. The Empire's weapons research begins and ends there."

Penelo turned her face to the ceiling and groaned. "Don't tell me we're going there…"

"Sorry," said Ashe. "If that's where it is, that's where we're going."

Basch at least managed to suppress his groan. "Nevermind that it's the capital of the very country that seeks to have us all killed."

"Well," Balthier stepped in, "it also happens to be my hometown. I can get us in faster than Penelo can get herself arrested."

"Hey!" Penelo injected.

"Let me guess," Ashe added. "Balfonheim Port?"

"Now how would a princess come to know of that?" Balthier asked with a smirk.

"Larsa spoke of it," she answered. "It's where we're to regroup with Al-Mid."

Basch gave her a sharp glare. "You actually agreed to that?"

"According Larsa, Balthier and Fran will have no trouble getting us through safely," she replied. "He said he knows someone worthy of our trust there."

Though Basch did not look convinced, Balthier gave the princess a hesitant nod. It was not a card he wished to play, but the circumstances had grown dire, and if anyone could convince the princess of nethicite's treachery, it was Reddas. "Yes," he said, "an old friend of Vayne's—though they're not on such good terms these days."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" asked Penelo.

"More or less," the pirate confirmed. "At any rate, he poses less danger than the lab. You all could stay at the port while Fran and I get the job done."

"I am not just leaving my country's fate to a pair of pirates," Ashe growled.

"You can't just walk into Archades, either," said Basch.

"I can and I will," she snapped.

"You'll be dead in five minutes," he contended.

"Not if you do your job."

"Uh, Princess…" Penelo stepped in, one hand twirling nervously in her hair. "Maybe you should just let them handle it. I mean, they're professionals, after all."

"That's what concerns me," Ashe replied.

Balthier gave her a deliberate scowl, not out of offense that she should think such a thing, but out of anger that she should _correctly_ think such a thing. Still, he remained convinced that if she failed to destroy one stone, she would invariably fail to destroy another, and once she possessed the Dusk Shard, she would move on to the final conquest—the Dawn Shard—and before long, no semblance of her former self would remain to the world; she would no longer be Ashe, just as Cid was no longer Cid.

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Highness," he told her. "I can't rob you until you've paid me—and I'm expecting more than a piece of nethicite."

"This is starting to sound familiar," Penelo groaned.

"You should consider your options until the last possible moment, Princess," said Fran. "Where nethicite is concerned, your trust would be better placed in us than in Reddas."

Ashe wrinkled her nose. "A dark truth if ever I heard one."

"And who is Reddas?" Penelo asked.

"A pirate," Balthier answered. "A damn good one."

"Some call him the Pirate King even," added Fran.

"That doesn't sound good," said Basch.

"Normally, it wouldn't be," she went on, "but he will not harm us so long as we do no harm to him."

"He's partial to Larsa," said Balthier. "We'd have to do a lot to piss him off."

"Well," Ashe replied, "let's get going, then. We've brought enough trouble to Bur-Omisace as it is."

"Princess," Basch protested, "you can't be serious."

"Quit whining, Captain," she groaned. "How much can go wrong with you around to protect me?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Was that some sad form of flattery or just another order?"

"Come on." She headed for the door.

"Either way," said Penelo, "I don't think we have a choice."

Basch shook his head and followed after the princess, Penelo trotting eagerly ahead.

Fran met Balthier's eyes once more before heading after the others, and he at last took up the rear. He was going home—he kept telling himself that the _Strahl_ was his home, that the sense of wholeness he felt so near to achieving all the sudden was just a return to the ship after so many days ashore. But he was going home.

He was going home.


	54. Chapter LIII

_LIII._

Larsa had again gone silent—Gabranth wondered which was the heavier blow: losing Gramis or losing Drace. He walked morosely at the Judge's side from the docking bay to the throne room, and Gabranth almost hoped that his trance would endure long enough for Vayne to see what he had done, but the moment the brothers caught sight of each other, they lurched forward and met in an embrace. Vayne fell to his knees, squeezing the boy until he wheezed for breath and gesturing for the two generals in attendance to leave. Gabranth stood silently in the doorway as they passed.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Vayne demanded. He was still smiling.

"I'm sorry," Larsa replied, leaning out, hands clasped on Vayne's shoulders.

The emperor's expression dimmed then, one hand passing over the boy's hair and smoothing it back.

"What?" Larsa asked.

"I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, Little Brother, but you look like hell."

"I, uh, feel like hell."

He gripped the boy's shoulders. "Don't scare me like that again."

"I'll try."

Vayne stood, face hard. "You know you're lucky to be alive?"

"I know." Larsa's gaze fell to his feet. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just wasn't—really—thinking properly. After Father died."

"There's nothing wrong with that, but you could have just come to me. You know I'll always make time for you." He was still for a moment, and then blinked, his tone softening. "Where did you go?"

Larsa gulped. "I was scared, and—I didn't know what to do, so…"

"Rabanastre," Gabranth interrupted.

Vayne turned to him, brows low, but eyes lifted.

The Judge stepped forward. "I found him in Rabanastre with Penelo."

"Who?"

"His Dalmascan friend."

"Ah…"

Larsa managed half a smile. "I—I didn't mean to…"

Vayne cocked an eyebrow, and Gabranth stepped in once more: "It's alright, Larsa. Don't be shy."

"I just wanted to see her again. She cheers me up, you know?"

"I see," said Vayne. "Well, next time, why don't you just tell me and I'll arrange to have her brought here? We can't have you wandering about in public unprotected."

"I understand."

Silence.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Vayne asked.

"Yes."

"Nothing else you need to tell me?"

"No."

Vayne looked him over, holding eye-contact with concern that seemed to border on suspicion, and Gabranth carefully stepped in a third time:

"Lord Vayne?"

The emperor looked up, a threat behind his eyes that Gabranth feared even Larsa could see.

"He's just a little embarrassed," Gabranth said quietly.

"I kissed her," Larsa added.

Vayne's gaze snapped back down to him. "You what?"

Larsa took in a deep breath. "I told you I wasn't thinking."

This changed Vayne's expression entirely, and he once more mussed the boy's hair. "Well, you little scoundrel! If ever there was a legitimate reason to run away, that would have to be it. I hope she didn't slap you."

Larsa grinned nervously, but could not muster a response. A subtle rattling of steel broke into the room: Zargabaath entering behind them.

"Your Excellency? A word?"

Vayne nodded to him. "Right." And then, addressing his brother: "Go clean yourself up. We can talk over dinner."

Larsa nodded. "Okay."

He turned and headed for the door, but Gabranth lingered for a moment, eyes on Vayne. Despite his helm, Zargabaath seemed to be mirroring his expression, and Vayne at last rolled his eyes and nodded after his brother. Gabranth left.

In the hall, Larsa stared forward vacantly—the closest he came to pouting anymore—and Gabranth walked at his side in heavy-hearted silence.

"You didn't have to do that," the boy told him.

"Yes, I did," the Judge groaned in return.

"I may be young, Gabranth, but I know how to take responsibility for my own actions."

"You committed treason."

"So? What's he going to do about it? Kill me?"

Gabranth bit his tongue. The ever-burdening helmet hid the shock on his face from Larsa, who heeded his silence by turning his gaze to the floor and saying gently, "I know he did it."

"Larsa, your father's murderers have been tried and convicted—"

"And executed—I know, but that doesn't change anything."

"Drace knew what she was doing. She always did."

Larsa seemed to withhold a sigh. "Did you get to talk to her? Before?"

"She was at peace with it," Gabranth said quietly.

"I won't let him do that to you," Larsa insisted.

"Don't worry about me," he replied, tasting blood.

His mind ached, and for a moment he felt quite old, but other thoughts pressed these back into the shadows, forcing him to mull over the rather amazing talent he had developed for lying as of late. But it didn't surprise him. Vayne had only to threaten Gabranth with relief of his duties to cow him into submission. It had brought him to the point that he no longer even knew who he had become, much less how or why he had become it, and some dark thought always managed to creep into his considerations of it, to comfort him with assurances of necessity, to convince him that the benefit outweighed the cost.

Larsa looked to his feet, to the passing marble floor. "It's strange," he said. "I thought I'd hate him forever, but—I don't know. It's harder than I thought it would be."

"I suppose that's a good thing," Gabranth replied.

Now Larsa turned his eyes to the side, determined but unsure. "What happened between you and Basch?"

Gabranth's voice remained sturdy, but his tone softened. "What does it matter?"

"Well, hasn't it been long enough? Can't you just talk to each other?"

"It's complicated."

"A girl?"

"A country."

Larsa returned his gaze to the floor briefly before leveling it straight ahead. "Who started it?"

"I did, of course."

"What if you didn't?" he pressed. "Would you forgive him?"

"I'd try. I can't know for sure."

"How can you not know?"

"Do you know why Vayne does what he does?"

The boy's face seemed to dim, his expression dropping into furrowed discontentment, and at length he shook his head. "I never thought he'd do _this_."

"I'm sure he never thought he would either," Gabranth added.

"That doesn't help."

Gabranth withheld a sigh. There were times when Larsa reminded him of Basch—that earnestness, that idealism, that roiling insistence that justice would always win out in the end. And the mischievousness: Basch could never keep himself out of trouble, could never learn except by hard, harsh, hilarious experience. Even in the army, Gabranth had outranked him. When he joined the Archadian ranks—completely on his own, for once—he had found himself drifting with such a lack of responsibility, burdening himself with laborious duties to keep his mind apart from his sorrow. Technically, he was older than Basch, and he had never passed up an opportunity to remind him of this, but since the fall of Landis their roles had completely reversed—suddenly Basch had his head on straight and Gabranth just took what came his way and ran with it. He didn't have the same tact for it that his brother had, though, and it wore on him every day—doubly without Drace.

But he refused to submit himself to a futile battle. He had seen too many of his countrymen give their lives for a vain hope and a lost cause, and he could not bear the shame of it, much less the pain. He understood in some shadowy way that he had surrendered himself to the will of a cruel and uncaring Imperial machine, but he could not live with the thought of surrendering without profit or dignity—he could not handle the way in which so many others pledged their lives to a stubborn monarch and a foundering army, or how he'd feel such a mindlessly faithful hound to cling so to a fallen kingdom. But Basch—Basch could do it, and take pride in whatever fate followed.

He remembered biting back a remorseful laugh upon learning that Basch had joined the Resistance—no surprise there. But Archadia had taken far more from Basch than it had from Gabranth, and in his youth he'd held a distaste for compliance, anyway—as had his wife. Before they married, Gabranth had feared he'd have two siblings to keep out of trouble, but in the end she figured out how to tame Basch, though it was a secret she insisted she could not share. And good gods, Penelo: The resemblance did prove striking at first, but it took only a passing inspection to see the difference—though one thought persisted in the back of Gabranth's mind: Basch must be terrified of her.

And it made no sense: that Gabranth should be given all that had so violently been torn from Basch. Gabranth forsook his home and his blood, and from it received an empire and a family. He wondered now if his punishment had been delayed; if he'd been given this joy for the sole purpose of losing it. Perhaps in the end, Basch would get his rightful revenge and Archadia would fall, and then their fates would at long last equalize. And yet, even if he lost Larsa now, he'd had more than Basch ever had, and he hated himself for it.

At times, he wished that he himself would be dealt a proper end, but he could not allow such misfortune to befall Larsa. But still, the day he returned from Nalbina—his payment for selling out his own brother—on that day, when he had been returned to Larsa's retinue, when all that had gone wrong was supposed to again be made right: For a moment, Larsa's joy made it worth the agony, but then he realized his great oversight: such a traitor had no right to look after the boy, no right to teach him honor and respect and love. Murderer. Hypocrite. Larsa deserved better.

Somehow, Drace saw this—somehow, she saw everything—but she never humored Larsa when he sensed something amiss, and she never pressed Gabranth when he insisted he felt fine. She understood what he had done—what he had _really_ done—and needed no details or excuses. He revered that in her. Of course, there had always been things of which they did not speak—their lives before the Judiciary, their opinions of the war, their real names—it was a list of unfortunate length, but it kept suitable boundaries in place, and both knew they needed that.

He had once told her in Landisian that he loved her—barely a year after they had met, when he'd had perhaps a bit too much to drink and Larsa had been too small to pick up on such things. They had just put the prince to sleep and were about to part for the night, and somehow he lost track of what he was thinking and what he was saying—thank gods he still thought in Landisian. He had apologized for the slip up, blaming it on habit, but she paid this no heed, asking instead what it meant.

"Goodnight," he had told her, nearly choking when she nodded and repeated it back.

It was nearly four years later that he discovered she had been fluent all along.

"Sometimes we do things we know we shouldn't do," he told Larsa. "Things we don't want to do."

The boy's voice quivered with disdain. "And he's Emperor, so none of his decisions are his own."

"Your father told you that?"

"Always."

"Justification," Gabranth sighed.

"I think so," Larsa agreed.

"Vayne may make his own decisions," he went on, "but he makes them on behalf of his people. It's easier to blame him than it is to understand him."

"I know. It just makes me wonder if he ever really…"

"You're brothers." The strength of his voice surprised him, though Larsa seemed to anticipate it. "Nothing can ever change that. He just can't admit to himself that you're stronger and always will be."

Larsa looked angry for a moment—his eyes trained low, an accusation in them that Gabranth would know, or at least that he _should_ know—but this expression soon passed, and he glanced briefly up at the Judge before turning his gaze back down.

"I've always wished you were my father," he said.

"You don't mean that," Gabranth replied.

"I do."

"Then you shouldn't say it."


	55. Chapter LIV

_LVI._

"Try to pretend just for a moment that I am a princess," Ashe said, but Balthier was not deterred.

"Try to pretend just for a moment that you're not." He nudged the cloak at her again. It was coarse and brown, and smelled like livestock. "We may have an arrangement, but that doesn't mean the city watch won't still stop us to keep up appearances."

"My name may be notorious," Ashe said, "but my face is not exactly far-known."

"She's got a point," Penelo added, and then turned to the princess. "I didn't even recognize you."

"I noticed."

The wheel of their carriage hit a bump then, and they all clung to the crates beneath them. It was a cargo wagon—covered, but cramped—the driver separated from them by only a ratty curtain, and everything around them rattled incessantly: gold candle sticks, silver cutlery, a few sacks of foreign currency, and several boxes that most likely contained jewels. "Tribute," Balthier had called it, but in truth it was plunder: a tax paid to Vayne by the pirates of Balfonheim port in exchange for their continued independence from the law.

"I still say you should have stayed behind," Balthier growled.

"I still say it's not going to happen," Ashe shot back, but she snatched up the cloak anyway and threw it over her shoulders, drawing up the hood.

It was well enough that they wouldn't be traveling on foot—to the city or in it. Though her "lovely little nose," as Balthier had called it, had not broken under the weight of Bergan's blow, both of her eyes had blackened below the lashes for the first two days of the journey down the mountain. She had held snow to it as Basch advised, minimizing the swelling—and sparing her much taunting from the others—and the bruises had nearly healed, but violet half-moons remained beneath her eyes, along with a noticeable red splotch across the bridge of her nose. It was enough to garner unwanted attention in a cultured city like Archades.

And she had to go—Balthier and Fran were professionals, but she couldn't trust either of them with the Dusk Shard. Nethicite—a literal gift of the gods, mythical and long-lost and now here, right in her hand. Imagine what such a weapon would do, unleashed in the center of Archades. Imagine how many would consider it naught but justice. But how would she even use it if she wanted to? Zecht had used it, and so had Ghis, albeit unintentionally, and both of them had paid with their lives. And at the temple—she had raised the blade to cut the shard, and the Mist had moved, shifted, brought her a vision as real as the man himself, right down to the lay of his hair, right down to the tiny lines at the corners of his mouth when he smiled, right down to the smile that was so small and so subtle as to be indistinguishable from his countenance at rest. She hadn't told anyone what she had seen—what she had felt—but all the same she kept the Midlight Shard near, tight against her, and hoped in some dark shadow beneath her thirst for justice that the Dusk Shard might offer a vision even more solid, more concrete.

But first they had to get into the city, and then they had to get into the lab. Balthier and Fran had succeeded easily in getting them into the country: avoiding or sneaking through every Imperial checkpoint along the way. They had let Penelo take the reins once or twice, the haphazard flight lessons providing more entertainment than the mere company of each other offered, but Ashe had spent much of the two-day journey in the cabin. The occasional hum of the stone—so similar in thought and presence to her name—wore on her patience, and as the strength of her woes began to grow and the shadow of the Empire began to darken, she found herself unable to entertain her comrades' antics for more than a few minutes at a time. When she slept, she dreamed of Rasler, and when she woke, Balthier let Basch update her on their progress, focusing instead on the fast-flying ocean beneath the _Strahl_ , honey-eyed and solemn.

The nefarious Reddas did not greet them as Balthier assumed he would when they arrived at the port.

"Odd," he had told them after clearing their approach with the dock manager. "He seemed pretty keen on our business with Ghis when we left."

"Perhaps he's keeping to his own business," Fran had replied.

With the ship anchored, they had set out on foot, the boards of the dock rough but strangely solid beneath Ashe's boots. Balthier had made it clear—with some embellishment, she suspected—that the _Strahl_ could not hope to elude the memory of the means by which he had first acquired it, but the princess had feared that the locals might pose as great a risk as the security of the royal city's aerodome. None of them seemed too interested in the new arrivals, however, too busy drinking, singing, and brawling, or else tending fervently to capers that they seemed just as pleased to leave undiscussed as Ashe was about her own. All the same, Basch walked tight at her side, the heat of his body radiating against her whenever a stranger passed too closely or a scuffle grew too loud.

Balthier led them to a wooden storefront with papered-up windows. The sign hanging slightly askew above the entrance called it a shipping company, but the façade offered no indication that the sign ought to be taken at its word. The interior was as nondescript as the exterior: a map on one wall, a pricing chart on the other, a nonchalant teenaged girl standing at a splintery counter, absorbed in a book and willing to draw her eyes up from it only briefly to recognize Fran and Balthier before waving them wordlessly toward the door at her back.

The loading station beyond was more lively, workers hauling crates and barrels in and out of caravans, oxen munching contentedly in a stable that stretched beyond the work floor. The foreman recognized Balthier immediately.

"Where the hell you been, boy?"

They bumped shoulders and slapped each other's backs.

"Oh, you know," Balthier told him. "The end of the world and back—a few times, actually."

"Fran!"

The man stretched out his arms for an embrace, but Fran gave him only a glare and a nod. "Jules."

And his hands fell limp, his arms hesitating and then drawing inward to his sides as he rocked back a step. "Always a pleasure."

"Is Reddas about?" Balthier asked.

"Afraid you just missed him. Got some big job going on."

"How big?"

"Big enough he didn't wanna share with any of us!"

It was all in Archadian, and Balthier glanced at Ashe as Jules spoke, but Ashe gazed back at him as placidly as she could. She wasn't sure whether or not he knew she spoke the language. She'd prefer he didn't.

"Look," he told Jules, "we're kind of in a hurry. We need to get to Draklor without drawing too much attention. I was hoping we could hitch on the weekly tribute."

"Looks like a lot of extra weight," Jules replied.

"We can pay, of course."

Basch stood close enough that his arm pressed against Ashelia's. Penelo had edged closer as well, but kept studying the area behind them. Ashe wondered if Basch had instructed her to keep watch on their backs, or if she had picked it up on her own.

"Who are your friends?" Jules asked.

"Clients," Balthier replied.

"And their business?"

"None of yours."

"Fair enough. But it'll be ten percent extra."

Ashe tried not to let her eyes widen when Balthier pulled out several Archadian bank notes.

"Business is so bad not even an old friend can catch a break?" he asked.

"Son, everything we steal goes to Vayne these days."

"Haven't I always said that arrangement is doomed to a bloody end?"

And so they ended up in the back of a cargo wagon, rattling and rumbling their way through the short stretch of countryside that separated them from Archades, Penelo staring out the slatted window at the hills that passed, Basch staring at Penelo as though no one else would notice. The foothills were green and gently rounded, the road well-worn, but also well-maintained. Archadia lent itself well to foliage of all types, its temperate weather varied enough over the course of the seasons to coax a wide array of flowers and trees out of its land, and with them the countless creatures they attracted.

But Ashe watched only for a few minutes before an odd sickness overtook her—a tightness to her stomach, an inexplicable heat within her head. Not motion sickness, surely—she'd faired too well on the _Strahl_. The land was similar to Nabradia, but she could not be homesick for a place that wasn't really home. It was disgust, she told herself: disgust for the country that had conquered hers. That settled her.

"What happened to the Rabanastre job?"

The driver was trying to chat up Balthier, and he had given in to responding when his own companions proved poor company.

"Let's just say it went decidedly downhill," he said.

And the driver straightened in her seat. "Alright," she said. "We're getting to the gates. Nothing personal." And she drew the curtain between them shut.

Penelo shifted on the crate beneath her, rising up onto her knees to face out the slats, fingertips fitted neatly into one long aperture. Basch smiled faintly—a dreamy, unconscious sort of smile.

"Wow," the girl cooed, then whipped her head around quickly to see that no one else was looking. "Princess, don't you want to see it?"

One corner of Ashe's mouth twitched upward in a poor attempt at optimism, but Penelo was already looking back through the cracks. "I've seen it already," she said.

"On your wedding tour," Balthier added. "Quite the peace parade. You wore blue, if memory serves."

Ashe blinked. "You saw me?"

And he huffed, smirking. "Everybody saw you. Granted, from a distance, and for about thirty seconds. Half the country assumed you'd take the opportunity to surrender before the war came to your front."

And her mouth tightened again—this time resisting a frown instead of attempting a smile.

Balthier continued: "You were there, too, weren't you, Captain?"

Basch had been roused from his latest staring session when Penelo had spoken, and had turned slightly to peer out the slats behind him. "Me and half an army's worth of security," he confirmed. "That tour was the closest Nabradia or Dalmasca ever came to invading the Empire."

"So I'm the only one who's never been here?" Penelo pouted.

The wagon rumbled to a halt, voices flitting beyond the front curtain.

"Only until we pass through those gates," Balthier told her.

She smiled, glancing through the cracks once more before settling back onto her crate. Shadows were passing outside, guards asking for shipping manifests, inspecting each wagon in the caravan.

They did not ask to inspect the cargo—if they had, the group would pass as loading workers; shipments from Balfonheim to Draklor received little attention on the Emperor's orders, and Ashe beamed at the thought of infiltrating the heart of Vayne's operations through his own back channel.

Her thoughts turned abruptly when the wagon jerked back into motion: "Is your exit plan as smooth as the entrance?"

Balthier gave her a glare that seemed more playful than perturbed. "Did you think I'd weasel us into this much trouble with planning an escape in advance?"

"Yes."

Basch made a huffing sound—biting back a laugh. Penelo had a similar response, but made no effort to hide it, and Fran—Fran, of all people, granted Ashelia a smile, and Ashe had to withhold her own surprise at having achieved such a rarity. Fran did not smile often, and when she did, it was only a mystifying smirk, usually accompanied by a wiggle of her tail. Her tail was out of view at the moment, but Ashe reveled in the triumph all the same.

"Well, as it happens," Balthier went on, "I do have a little something up my sleeve. I trust you won't complain about the smell when the time comes."

"It's the sewer, isn't it?" Ashe asked, and Balthier released a sigh, turning his gaze to the ceiling.

"It's the sewer."

Penelo rose to her knees once more as the shadow of the city gates passed. It was just past noon, and sunlight pierced every crack in the wagon's sides, but the girl squinted against the glare and watched on undaunted. Ashe, finally, turned and peered through the cracks.

White columns passed by through the slats of wood, clean cobblestone streets reflecting the sunlight in shades of lavender and indigo. The farther they passed into the city, the higher the storefronts stretched, and the busier the sidewalks grew. Glass doors shone with rising frequency, iron scrollwork adorning gates and window boxes, and everything was covered with flowers and vines, everything was covered with color.

The architecture conveyed the same refinement evident in the Archadian accent, everything tall and straight and gently arching at the peaks. Towering skyscrapers ornamented with rounded windows and finely scrolled balconies lined the main streets, seeming to raise gently on their shining shoulders a horizon laden with unending abundance. Their roofs adorned the clear sky, their windows alight with fluttering draperies and clear, gleaming panes. Sunlight glided down every surface in smooth lines, glowing behind the luminous silhouette of each building as though it rested there, at leisure along with the rest of the populace.

The streets were of course alight with the activity, but the citizens streamed at an unhurried pace, spaced apart from each other in twos and threes, the couples arm-in-arm, the children anchored to their parents' hands. It was an extravagantly quixotic culture, even the merchants well dressed, even the teenagers bowing and curtseying. And the Imperial Palace towered above all, gilt and glowing beneath the sun's rays. Ashe felt it like a shadow even as they passed by the university, even as they drew away from the bay it overlooked and toward the far end of the campus near the city's center.

Still, there was a beauty in the city's vastness, in the chatter of students they passed, the distant sounds of industry from the shipwrights' yards. It was a harbor city, while Rabanastre and Nabudis were both centered on rivers, and the smell of the water bore a different sort of freshness, but it nevertheless stirred memories that were best forgotten. The Midlight Shard buzzed in her pocket.

When she turned from the crack, she found that Balthier was looking out of it, eyes distant not in the far-reaching way they looked when fixed on the horizon, but in a misty and weighted way, a way that spoke of unrequited familiarity and an almost painful nearness. He must have felt her eyes on him, because he cast her a glance and then started, turned inward toward the crates of cargo, shifting on his seat.

"It's good to be home?" she asked.

"Something like that," he replied.

Penelo was still glued to her view, fingers gripping the plank. "I'm glad Larsa taught me some Archadian," she said. "I mean, I knew a little, but they've got bigger words than the soldiers ever used in Rabanastre."

"It's not an easy language to learn," said Basch.

"I hear Landisian is harder," Ashe replied.

He smiled. "I seem to remember you and Rasler trying."

"I seem to remember us failing."

"Dalmascan's more useful, anyway."

It was true. Dalmascan possessed its share of beautiful words, but its simplistic structure and practical minimalism left many of them unused in casual conversation. The language held the propensity for impressive precision, but one could speak it efficiently with only a small vocabulary.

And suddenly, she remembered: Basch had always called Rasler by the Landisian word for prince. Only to his face—never in the third person. She had forgotten it entirely, and had never asked either of them how the habit came about. Penelo spoke up before she could mention it:

"I had trouble picturing Larsa here. But it's not how I thought it would be."

"What were you expecting?" Balthier asked. "A dungeon?"

"Well," she replied, still looking out from the gap in the boards, "nobody from around here ever seemed all that happy."

Ashe smirked, and caught Basch doing the same.

"But I see it now," Penelo went on. "I see why Larsa doesn't want the Resistance to hurt this place."

"And Larsa gets what he wants," Balthier replied.

For the first time since they entered the city, Penelo turned her face from the window. She leveled a glare on Balthier, but when she spoke, her voice did not sound accusing: "Like this lab?"

Balthier folded his arms and crossed one leg over the other. "So Vayne would have his lord father think, while he was still running the show. The lower floors belong to the university, but everything from the fourth floor up is military. What Gramis wouldn't fund—" He gestured to the boxes and barrels around them. "—Vayne would. Though I can imagine the state coffers will soon be emptied now that Vayne has access to them."

Ashe leaned forward. "It can't be too difficult to infiltrate if students are allowed to come and go."

"Security increases every two floors," he said, "but that's not the problem. Guards are easy enough to get by once you're in, but the fortifications make finding entrances a bit tricky."

"Fortifications?" Ashe asked.

And Balthier took in a breath, hands dropping to the edges of the crate on which he sat. "The last slight glitch involving nethicite put out what Cid called 'sympathetic vibrations' and shattered every window for about six blocks in all directions. It was an excellent ploy to increase funding for toughening up the bulwarks—once the screaming stopped. One can only imagine the gods are well entertained."

"And the same protections that keep any danger contained," Ashe concluded, "also make it impenetrable from the outside."

He nodded. "Not so much as a vulnerable air vent. Three security checks at the front door, with more to reach the upper floors—and only one stairwell, in case you're wondering. And the loading bay, where we're going."

The wagon slowed to a stop, voices sounding outside once more—Imperial voices: soldiers.

"Where we are, by the sound of it," said Basch.

"Stay calm and try not to rush," Balthier told them. "They're used to unsavory types on the tribute wagons, but they know nervousness when they see it." He stood and gestured to the cargo again. "And we'll have to unload all this."

"Only polite?" Ashe asked.

He shrugged. "And I may have shorted Jules on our fare."


	56. Chapter LV

On the one hand, this really should be two chapters. On the other hand, I think it works better with streamlined narration. Any suggestions for improvement would be greatly appreciated.

 _LV._

The Draklor Laboratories spanned an enormous compound stretching from the university campus near the center of Archades to the waterfront land just down the beach from the royal palace. The two structures at either end—the warehouse facing the harbor, where ships were launched, and the towering laboratory in the city, where top-secret experiments were conducted—were covered by the heaviest security. None of the others were open to the public, either—many housed dangerous chemicals and rare specimens—but even the most inane corners of the compound were guarded, from the archives to the offices.

Not that any of it deterred Balthier.

A few minutes of unloading crates was all it took to sneak the princess and all her attendants into the enormous mechanical lift with the cargo. Fran had flattened her ears down and thrown a hooded cloak over herself as well, so as not to draw too much attention, and one-by-one each of them ducked behind boxes and beneath sacks, and the guards watched a motley assortment of pirates board the three wagons in the caravan and head back out to the city with no suspicion that the numbers were a little off.

Too easy.

Three guards accompanied the tribute upwards on the lift, but the intruders had them unconscious and bound with burlap—and the occasional gold or silver chain—within moments, and Balthier took to the controls. They had changed the code since he left, of course; he popped the panel off the wall and twisted a few copper wires together to override the initial input, Ashe and Penelo hovering over his shoulders while he worked.

"What is all that?" Penelo asked.

"A wiring system to operate the pulleys." He pulled a stretch of wire out longer, careful to hold it by the rubber tubing that insulated it, and then jabbed it into an exposed keyhole. The lift would go to the top floor, but it wouldn't stop there unless wired to, and the doors wouldn't open without the key. "Same sort of thing that directs magicite currents in airships." The lock gave way, and he reached deep into the hole, searching for the thickest cable. They were almost to the top.

"Amazing," said Ashe.

They didn't seem to realize that this was time sensitive. "Most new construction in the city has something similar," he went on. "A little air, please?"

He looked over his shoulder as he said it, the cable tight in his fist, deep within the lift's wall, and Ashe and Penelo both backed up. He yanked the cable out, his elbow drawing back sharply. Two floors to go.

One of the guards stirred, and Basch kicked him in the head.

A few more tweaks, and the system attuned to Balthier's machinations, the elevator slowing to a halt at the top floor, briefly making to descend back downwards, and then pausing, rising, and steadying.

"Ready?" he asked, and the others drew their weapons, and braced their feet against the metal floor.

The enormous double doors drew open, a second set opening at a few inches' delay beyond them, but the only guards who met them there lay motionless in pools of blood. A bright red spatter streaked across the wall above one of them.

They all fell silent.

"I hesitate to complain," Balthier said, "but this could be problematic."

"They're still expecting us on the third floor," Fran noted, and he nodded.

"Get the guards out." He lurched toward them as he said it, grabbing one of the unconscious bodies by the feet while Ashe lifted it by the shoulders. Penelo and Fran carried out the second guard, and Basch dragged the third. Balthier replaced the control panel while the others inspected the hallway and the corpses littering it. He directed the lift to the third floor and hopped out.

The guards had been slashed—expert work by one far less compassionate than the princess and her cortege. At the very least, the three guards they had knocked unconscious would count themselves lucky.

But who had breached security, and how? It would take several rounds of concentrated fire from even the _Alexander's_ main guns to punch any sort of hole through the walls—and no one would even be able to try, not in the middle of Archades, with Draklor nestled so close to the rich and powerful—so the likelihood of a single intruder establishing an entrance was infinitesimally small. A rogue Judge of Bergan's caliber was equally unlikely; issues of security and access had made it possible to keep any Judges as far away from the lab's core operations as possible, unless they were accompanied by the royal they were assigned to guard. And even then, as far as Balthier was aware, even Emperor Gramis hadn't been able to bribe his way past the first few floors. Not even Larsa was allowed this high up.

But there was the lift—its shaft doubled as waste disposal, falling clear down to a compactor in the sewer that Balthier knew how to override. Perhaps someone reversed it. He didn't have time to speculate.

"Where do we start?" Ashe asked him.

He nodded down one of the long white corridors. "Cid's office. This way."

They followed him with swords drawn, and he led them cautiously around blind corners, finding only a corpse here and there, the halls deserted, many doors normally opened now closed and locked. He guessed that the other scientists and technicians and lab hands had barricaded themselves—more the better for the princess.

All the same, it was a dreadful thing: the last room in this building he wanted to visit was their best bet at finding the Dusk Shard. Some childish part of him still hoped that Cid would not be there—would not be anywhere in the building—but Cid was always there, obsessive, incorrigible, no matter the effects on his own health or that of the world at large. He was the head scientist of the largest and most well-funded lab in what was arguably the most powerful nation on the planet. For over half of his life, he had devoted himself to the largest projects, the most revolutionary ideas, the most innovative technologies, using increasingly dangerous methods and materials to test the limits of human understanding. But none of this suggested that any mistakes Cid made would ever be considered small. Even by his standards, Nabudis was failure on a level more familiar to myth than actual human experience. How truly Imperial, really, to be well on their way to mowing over Nabradia, only to go and blow half of it up before they could get there.

Cid's office was at the end of a row of them, it's gaping door punctuating the end of the hallway as Balthier rounded the corner, but he noticed first that every other door along the hall hung open and unguarded. He halted abruptly, the others stopping at his sides, and the proceeded at a creeping pace, wary of any guard or suspicious employee that might lash out at them from the many doorways. No such thing happened: every office they passed was barren, impeccably clean, devoid of movement; no books filled the shelves, no documents covered the desks. Balthier knew that Cid had grown wary of his peers—paranoid, would be more accurate, if less polite—but this seemed a touch overboard.

The door to Cid's office loomed lazily on its hinges, open two-thirds of the way, as though it had swung back with the force of whatever momentum threw it open. Balthier poked it with his sword, nudging it clear of the entryway. There was no response from within. He looked to Fran for some sense of sound or smell, and she shook her head.

"It's too quiet," said Basch.

"Passing strange," Balthier agreed, stepping into the office. "There are supposed to be guards here."

The office was a mess of no simple measure, a well-used contrast to the vacant rooms nearby. Several piles of loose papers sat on the floor, scattered and left to rest in the absence of movement within the chamber. The density of the stillness overpowered the silence, the contents of the room lying in a frozen reflection of the flurry of movement that had disrupted them. A small accumulation of wooden pegs and spheres cluttered one corner: a model of an elemental structure shattered in the violence. And all the books had been thrashed—notebooks and research volumes alike. Glittering geodes caught sunlight from the high corner windows, pens reflecting glints of gold from the floor. The drawers had been pulled from the desk; every chair was upturned. And it occurred to Balthier that coming face-to-face with his father would have been less problematic than having no idea of his whereabouts at all.

"He's had visitors…" Penelo noted.

"The type lacking manners, by the look of it," added Fran.

"If the Shard was here," Ashe said on an exhale, "someone's beaten us to it."

"Never hurts to double check," Penelo replied. She was already sifting through the debris.

"A _quick_ double check," Ashe insisted, and they all set to it.

It seemed a morbidly comical irony to Balthier: when nethicite had a mind to vanish, it left no trace, but when it chose to leave its mark behind, there was no looking past it. No bodies, of course—the Midlight Shard had vaporized every living thing its power had consumed—but that gash, that fissure: that was the only clue nethicite would leave in its wake.

He had had to remove his helmet the last time he set foot in this room. Cid was the type to collect clutter, but he had always kept a corner of his desk clear for that unwieldy Imperial status symbol. Even when he took the whole bloody suit off at the end of each gray, streaming day, it only ended up piled haphazardly in a corner of the room, props discarded once the scene had changed. Dignity and authority instantly bestowed, no matter what fool may be clanking about inside: it was absurd.

But Balthier's time as a Judge had been brief: it had not taken long before the hypocrisy of his duties had overcome the patriotism of youth, and there had been no real plan in that long-mounting moment of desperation—only clear skies and an escape from the stifling weight of Imperial bureaucracy. And now he was here, following or leading or otherwise obsessing over this desert queen and her over-reaching dreams, and however futile it was, and however misguided and romantic and delusional, it was as anchored as he'd been in years—the most comfortable with an anchor he'd ever been.

"Are you alright?"

It was Ashe, her voice gentle, her steps soft and calculated. He hadn't even noticed her approaching his side, too focused on the lone leaf of paper that he had dared to touch—a crude map of some sort.

Unconsciously, he shook his head. "Giruvegan," he said—the name scribbled at the top of the map. "He said he found it six years ago, and ever since he got back, this…"

"Strange…" she agreed, studying the drawing.

It bore no key or accurate measure of distance, and cloud-like lines surrounded its edges, faint eyes drawn on the rough outline of the sky island.

The others were digging through the wreckage, Fran venturing to take a few sniffs of the papers scattered across the floor, and none of them seemed to pay much attention to their conversation, though Balthier knew well enough that Fran heard every word. But he didn't know how to tell her—Ashe. He didn't know how to describe the pain and befuddlement and shame of what it really was—that this was not Cid's work, but Venat's. That all of this, and all of Cid, was utterly and unendingly Venat.

The underlying tone of every order from the Emperor was, of course, nothing less than to remake the world, and colleagues, co-workers, and enemies alike believed that Cid was more than a little out of his mind, but none of them knew the truth of the thing, the depth of it—the clearing of all the offices surely made certain of that. It used to be that the shadow would only speak to him when he was alone, and at a whisper, but things had obviously progressed since then, and Cid had not always been able to stop himself. He was a fool, so easily baited by interesting conversation.

This, though: a vague map, and yet more concrete that any off-handed mention of the imaginary world that Cid had ever offered before.

"I didn't know it was an actual place," Balthier told her. But then a number seemed to glimmer at him—a patch of sunlight hit one of the chalkboards that hung on wheeled stands around the room, illuminating a section of the formula that was written there. "That can't be right," he said.

"What?" Ashe asked.

He approached the board and took up the chalk laid at its base—it had somehow eluded the chaos that shook the room earlier. He wiped the board next to it clean, then copied down the original equation, making a few additions. "What the hell?" he asked.

The princess stepped up to his side, her expression furrowed. "A mistake?"

"Are you kidding? The only mistake he's ever made is me."

"Bal." Both turned upon hearing Fran's call, and she met their eyes steadily. "Reddas has been here."

Balthier raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"I could not confuse his scent in a hundred lifetimes."

"Hmmm…"

The princess looked intrigued, which always meant trouble. Balthier had learned a long time ago not to question Reddas on what he knew or didn't know, what he wanted or didn't want, what he was doing or not doing. The last thing any of them needed was Ashelia sniffing around where the Pirate King didn't want her.

"Something we should know?" Basch asked, stepping up to them.

"Certainly," Balthier replied. "I'm just not sure what it is."

He strode across the room and seized the third chalkboard, kicking clear a path and wheeling it up to the other two. The he began scrawling, the strong elegant lettering remarkably similar to his father's, though if the others noticed, they didn't comment. They gathered in slowly at his back, recoiling quickly when he stepped back to compare the three boards.

It didn't add up. The numbers were correct, but they were just different enough to conflict. The old man was a liar.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said.

"Having fun there?" Penelo replied.

He gestured to the first board—Cid's writing. "This is wrong."

"What?" asked Ashe.

"This." And now he pointed to the altered copy of the equation, explaining as best he could: "Manufactured magicite is powerless on its own. It has to be kept under pressure for centuries before it gains its energy, and even then, it's so unstable it usually changes its genes and mimics the stone around it. That's why we're still mining the natural stuff." Now he gestured to the string of tangled letters and numbers on the third board. "This is a genetic model of magicite—in numbers." And then to Cid's equation: "Over here is nethicite." He leaned in, pointing out the small, invidious divergence in subscript numbers attributed to one of the letters signifying magicite's core element. "The only difference is right here. He didn't create nethicite, he just fused a single cell of it with artificial magicite. So he makes all the magicite he wants, then turns it into nethicite so it can absorb energy out of Mist."

"So?" Penelo asked. She had taken the tiny shard Larsa had given her from her pocket, turning it in her fingers, then looking back up to him. "It works, doesn't it?"

Balthier tried to resist sighing. Even he had trouble keeping this rubbish straight, and he'd only ever had to explain it to Larsa, who caught on fast. "We've always assumed that magicite creates energy," he said. "We don't know how, but that's beside the point. He's using existing energy." Nothing but blank stares. Another suppressed sigh, and he continued: "Look. One of the most basic scientific principles is that energy can't be created or destroyed, only transferred. So, assuming we've been right on that one since the dawn of the age of reason, magicite _doesn't_ create energy—we've always considered it the exception, but that doesn't make much sense in the grand scheme of things.

"If it doesn't create it, it must be somehow absorbing it, which means that nethicite is nothing more than a catalyst. Mist comes out of the planet, and nethicite absorbs Mist. If magicite is doing the same without Mist, then it must be ditching the middleman and absorbing the Mist straight out of the planet itself. Now, maybe a few pieces of nethicite will be harmless, but by speeding it up with all his little manufactured toys, he's disrupting the whole process and sucking the planet dry before it can transfer more energy."

Penelo was blinking slowly, Basch tilting his head, but none of their eyes seemed quite so empty anymore, and Ashe ventured a question:

"So all this energy he's taking…" She moved her hand from her hip to her opposite arm, the barrier across her body somehow girlish, uncertain. "…is being used by Vayne?"

Balthier nodded. "Scary, isn't it? He's getting massive amounts of nethicite for a fraction of the cost of magicite. Spend the surplus on more ships, charge them all up—we're screwed."

She rubbed her arm, nodding. "An army more powerful than the world it dominates…"

And then a crash sounded down the hall, frenzied shouts ringing out, indiscernible amid the echoes. A klaxon sounded, blaring, deafening, accompanied by flashing red lights at every juncture in the bland corridors beyond the office.

"They found us," said Penelo.

"Reddas, more like," added Fran. "We should lie low for now."

But Balthier smiled, heading for the door and carefully peering out as the ruckus outside died down. People in white lab coats were flooding across the far end of the hall, filling the stairwell, no guards in sight. "Better yet," he said, "we'll use their confusion."

And then they were nestling into the crowd streaming toward the lone stairwell while one or two oblivious guards waved them all forward. They diverged beyond the door, the mass moving down while they broke from the current one-by-one to the single pair of flights leading up to the roof. Two dead guards lay at the door there: one slumped against the jamb, the other face down on the cold floor of the landing. The door itself had been shaken from its metal-toothed grip, hanging loosely on its hinges with neither lock nor latch to hold it shut, and a racket sounded in the sunlight beyond, the clash of steel on steel echoing even over the blare of the alarm below.

Ashe lurched forward with sword drawn, but Balthier caught her arm. "Princess—"

She cut him off with a glare, her mouth poised to protest, but Basch stepped in before she could speak, his hand gentler on her other arm.

"Your life is too precious to risk so freely."

And she pressed her lips together, jaw set, and said, "Fine."

Balthier released her and unsheathed his sword, the others following suit, and then charged through the door with Fran at his side, Basch and Penelo flanking the princess behind them.

The scene on the roof was about what Balthier expected: an Atomos, engines revving; Reddas, in the midst of cutting down three guards; and Cid, flanked by two more. He was holding the Dusk Shard.

Reddas did away with the guards before Balthier and Fran could intervene—he was an enormous man: as big as Basch, and far less resistant to impulse. His voice thundered as he encroached on Cid and the remaining guards.

"I'll accept Nabudis for its ignorance," he growled, "but you know deifacted nethicite brought down the _Leviathan_."

Cid responded with a laugh. "A show I am sorry to have missed. Honestly, I allotted you more sense than to step in like this."

Balthier stepped into view then, near to Reddas' side, yet still a step behind him. "Consider your numbers, old man," he said. "And bear in mind that the voices don't count."

"Ah, my favorite scrap of skyscum!" Cid exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"Treasure—what else would a pirate want?"

Reddas glanced over his shoulder. "Just can't keep yourselves out of trouble, can you?"

"It's more an art than a vice," Francesca replied, nearing his other side as the princess and her guards followed at a step's distance.

Balthier ignored the exchange and took another step toward Cid. Get on the ship, old man. Ignore the taunts and get on the bloody ship. "Just hand over the Dusk Shard," he said, "and we might kill you quickly."

"You've come all this way for that trinket? I thought you above this." He paused then, looking to his side with sharp attention, though his guards had edged forward and no one now stood where he looked. "Hm?" And now he quickly turned his gaze to Ashe, who studied him uncomprehendingly. "Ah, the princess of Dalmasca? She's not entirely without merit."

Balthier turned to Ashelia, his voice low: "Don't listen to him."

"Not very hospitable…" Cid went on to no one in particular.

Ashe shook her head. "You're out of your mind."

"You're the one carrying around a worthless rock," Cid shot back.

"Do not lend him your ears, my lady," said Reddas. "He means to use you."

Cid rambled on, looking to his side, answering silent inquiries. "Damn it, what do you want with her? She's useless."

"Shut up!" Balthier shouted. He was talking to Venat, not Cid. So much would be better—so much would never have happened—if Venat would just shut up.

"You've seen what these Shards are capable of," Ashe went on, venturing a few steps forward. "If you truly care for Archadia, you'll destroy it."

"Ah," Cid replied. "Nothing like a bit of hypocrisy in the afternoon. Do you truly think our country seeks power without regard for means or consequences?"

"I know it."

"But just how far will you go for power, Princess? Are you really willing to let the nethicite consume you?"

"I mean what I say. I will destroy it."

"You mean it and you say it, but I'd love to see you do it."

She glanced briefly to Balthier, but he did not meet her gaze, his eyes focused intently on his father, his jaw so tight he doubted he could speak if he wanted to. And then she returned her gaze to Cid, and said what Balthier could not:

"Someone has to learn from your mistakes."

The old man paused, an incomprehensible expression casting over his face only briefly before lifting in that amusement—that admiration—that always beamed so brightly when anyone posed him a genuine challenge. "A worthy daughter of the Dynast King," he said, stepping backward with a casual looseness. "You would do well to go to Giruvegan." He gripped the rail of the Atomos's boarding ramp and stepped up, his guards closing in around him. "You may receive a new stone for your trouble—if you can beat me to it, of course."

One of the guards lowered his sword just enough to pull a chunk of magicite from his belt, and Balthier reached for Ashelia just as she spun on her heel and sprinted toward him. A blinding array of lights launched forward—not close enough to scorch them, but the shockwave pushed them back all the same. The explosion of color dimmed in a matter of seconds, however—Penelo had thrown her nethicite at it, and the light contorted and warped, and soon condensed into nothingness, the tiny stone glowing bright.

Ashe dug her elbow into Balthier's stomach with a grunt—he was half on top of her, Basch braced over her other half at his side. Balthier rolled off her, Basch pushing back onto his knees.

"Apologies."

"Sorry."

"Gods," she gasped.

"Are you alright, Highness?" Basch asked.

Her palms were scraped red, and a raw spot on her left cheekbone seemed likely to rival the bruises beneath her eyes in a few hours' time, but she rose to her feet easily enough, regaining her sword and sheathing it, and said, "I'm fine. Everyone else?"

Balthier was already standing, Fran calm at his side, eyes inquisitive, and Penelo was retrieving her nethicite, tapping it cautiously before grasping it. It shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

"We all seem to be breathing," said Basch.

Balthier was staring at the expansive blue sky, Cid's Atomos a black speck coasting across it in the distance. "I hate it when he does that," he said.

Fran was staring at him. For how many stares she received, the woman certainly knew how to deliver them effectively. He turned away from her, a deep voice heralding Reddas's presence before Balthier could even spot him at the back of the gathering:

"Perhaps you think me remiss…" He approached the princess, but Basch stood steady between them. Reddas bowed. "Princess Ashelia, I take it?"

"Yes," she said with a nod, stepping around Basch and extending her hand. "And you must be Reddas."

"The one and only," he replied, shaking it. "I wasn't expecting you for quite some time—though I must say I find it a pleasant surprise so far."

"I wasn't aware you were expecting me," she said.

She had not ventured beyond Basch's side, and Balthier took heart in it.

"Lamont told me to keep an eye out for Your Majesty and one of the Rozarrian princes," Reddas went on. "He said it may be to my advantage."

"I see."

"So, is it?"

She shifted her weight slightly. Penelo had returned to her other side, and Balthier joined Fran beside Reddas.

"I understand you pay Vayne handsomely for your independence," said Ashe.

"That I do," he confirmed with a grin.

"Then yes, I may be able to help you."

"Then by all means, allow me to escort you back to Balfonheim—the _Strahl_ is no doubt docked there, yes?" He cast a glance on Balthier, who rolled his eyes in response.

Another ship was approaching opposite from the direction that Cid's had fled. A magicite cannon on the roof took aim at it, only to be blasted by the ship's front guns. The floor shook, and Basch threw and arm around Ashelia, steadying her by the shoulders. Balthier hoped he wouldn't pin her to the pavement again.

"My pride and joy," Reddas explained, gesturing to the airship—it was a Buhjuerban model, but repainted in a sleek silver that mirrored its surroundings, rendering its form barely an undulation of the sky. It blasted a second cannon, and Penelo gripped Ashelia's elbow more for her own balance than the princess's, but Reddas remained undaunted. "The _Highwind_ ," he said. "I'm sure you'll find it to your standards."

That bloody ship. Balthier had done half the work that made it so swift, and all the work that made it so powerful. Reddas's contributions had been primarily aesthetic—true Archadian.

"Balthier didn't nearly do you justice," said Ashe.

"I'd expect no less of the old boy," Reddas replied.

Balthier tilted his head back and groaned.


	57. Chapter LVI

_LVI._

Reddas seemed all too eager to host the princess, but Fran had little interest in his pride. While his co-poilot, Raz, piloted the _Highwind_ out of Archades and back toward Balfonheim, he boomed jovially about the narrow escapes the ship had seen him through and the powerful modifications that had been made to its artillery and engine and sonar, and Balthier stood in silence, watching, brows firm. Fran knew these two—she knew how they bragged and quarreled and cooperated, and Balthier was practically absent from the conversation. And yet, all the same, he kept close to Ashelia's side.

It had happened gradually, the distance he kept initially closing step-by-step the farther they traveled, but it was noticeable—at least, to Fran—and it hadn't much concerned her until now. Humans paired up—this was not unknown to the Viera; the greatest curiosity of humans was that their species was divided into two distinct types, like the birds of the Golmore Jungle that looked so vastly different and yet recognized one another as the same kind. Within the greater breadth of humanity existed an oddly-proportioned subtype called _men_ —this was Balthier's type—and reproduction required one of each: hence the pairing.

This was an odd thing to Viera, who were as a species also a family—each related to the other, only a few words of caution with strangers before they were hugging and kissing and stroking each other's hair. But Balthier had always been an anomaly, at least in the few years she had known him, which she believed constituted a somewhat significant portion of his lifespan. Balthier was restless—"wind-touched," the Archadians called it—and fearful of the intangible bond between humans, though he would never admit it. Fran believed he only kept such close ties with her because she was not a human, because they had no spoken agreement, no timeline or mutual expectation other than that this was working and would therefore continue.

But Ashe—he trailed after her, drifted near to her with increasing frequency and never wandered beyond a continually shrinking orbit. Fran wondered if perhaps he clung to the princess out of desperation to escape the wind, or only in an effort to delude himself into believing he had no control over the matter: desire a woman he could not have, and he could assure himself that their inevitable parting was not his fault. And all of this on the assumption that Ashelia would succeed in freeing her country from the oppression of his. Balthier had been stationary before: stable, settled, a high-born name and a position of prestige. It had landed him in the gutter, and sometimes it seemed that he was still recovering. Were the princess to fail, she might make a more realistic match for him—assuming her failure meant exile rather than death. And Fran worried—always worried—that if Ashe chained Balthier she would lose him, just as the Wood lost Fran. And how would he recover from that?

Reddas had the privilege of a private dock: the manse had once been owned by wealthy merchant family that effectively ran the entire bay, but there was some tale of the family seeking the approval of the high-born houses they once scorned and intermarrying their children with the children of the Archades nobility—or perhaps it was the other way around: the merchants gloated and preened and had their throats opened one-by-one by competitors in business and society. Fran could not keep the myths straight.

But the house was grand, overlooking the port on one side and the countryside on the other, light hitting enormous windows in every room, the sills hung with wooden boxes brimming with greenery that smelled almost like Fran's sisters. Balthier was never impressed by such grandiosity, but the princess seemed to loosen when they entered. Fran could tell she did not trust Reddas—Her Highness was smart in this regard—but she seemed more in her element, some wisp of relief breathing through her tone as she spoke. Reddas was insisting that they eat, and Ashelia was insisting that they not. Penelo was sucking on her lower lip—the girl was always hungry, Fran had found, but dared not speak against her princess.

Fran sighed, catching Balthier's eye. He tightened his mouth, arms crossed, and then looked away, half rolling his eyes as he did so. They had always been in agreement on this subject. No reason for any in Eryut to have more than what they had need of, and nothing even then that could not be easily replaced. The Wood provided always, even the concept of _want_ unfamiliar there. But it wasn't so in the rest of the world, and least of all in the Empire, where there were those who starved within sight of those who feasted.

But this was Reddas's way: pirating was about greed, and yet all those who did it were always scrappy, always poor, except for Reddas and a few others like him in lesser ports, and she didn't understand how these hierarchies arose, how they seemed so natural to humans, how they took such a bizarre comfort in knowing their place. And Fran was good at it: she was strong and quick and light on her feet, and even were she a bumbling fool, she was noticed and feared for her sharp eyes, and sharper claws, the reputation of the Viera alone enough to ensure peace on some journeys where she stood guard. She was respected and even feared, simply for her silence and—oddly enough—the way she looked. The humans thought that she was beautiful, and that she was wise, and though Jote had looked at the outside world with scorn and pity, Fran did not find it as easy to cast judgment as she walked among those who must live in it.

The world outside was little like Eryut, and full of infinite variety. Full to bursting with humans most of all, she knew, in the north and south and all in between, all with their own rules and laws and little common allegiance. They were fascinating creatures, and the final word that seemed to rule them all—ambition—seemed both beautiful promise and terrible curse.

"Nethicite," Ashe was saying, but Reddas shook his head:

"I know the word, my lady, and the terrible thing that claims it." Five different cheeses had been set out, and twice as many breads—flat, fluffy, crispy, crunchy. Reddas had insisted on it. "It is a burden in your hands, just as it is in Vayne's and just as it would be in your uncle's."

"And my uncle?" Ashe asked. "If I've approached you, then surely he will too, if he hasn't already."

Reddas withheld a sigh and smirked subtly. "I suppose it is useless to lie to Your Highness?"

She nodded. "And then some."

No one had dared to sit, though the heavy wooden table hosted cushioned seats for them all. Reddas had been leaning against the thick tabletop—unfinished wood was the style outside of the city—but he pushed off of it now and took a few strides away.

"The marquis came to me last week with a proposition," he admitted. "He had heard of my hatred of nethicite and asked if I might help him relieve the Empire of it."

"That's why you broke into the lab?" Ashe asked.

"No, no, Highness," he replied quickly, "not in the least. I told him I would not help him bring such destruction upon Ivalice. But I have no doubt that he will seek out some other means of stealing the Dusk Shard, so I came to beat him to it—with every intention of destroying the nethicite once I get it, I assure you."

Penelo was eyeing the cheese, her fingertips spread lightly on the table. Fran reached forward and pinched a raisin against an olive, then popped them into her mouth together. Penelo seized a cracker and ate it, pausing suddenly with wide eyes, and then chewing as slowly and quietly as she could.

"You would really deny yourself such power?" Ashelia asked.

"I would," he said. "I would not hesitate."

Ashe looked away, and Reddas continued: "Perhaps it will surprise you to learn that I love my country dearly."

She met his eyes once more.

"This war is beneath us," he told her. "Nabudis was beneath us. You know what was done there, do you not? They sent a Judge—the embodiment of order and justice—and they ordered him to plunder a sacred treasure from an innocent people. The Emperor's own son, who ought to defend and protect the people; the Emperor's chief scientist, who ought to ease and safeguard the people's lives: they told Zecht the workings of the stone, and ordered him first to steal it and then to use it, and ten thousand civilians died, alongside every last one of his own troops, alongside the man himself. There has been no graver miscarriage of justice in this country's long history, or in Nabradia's."

Ashe was looking away again, her eyes cast downward and unfocused. Balthier was gazing at her, his face soft. Penelo was pairing crumbles of sheep's cheese with the olives.

"Now, granted," Reddas went on, "I fully believe that Vayne did not know how powerful the nethicite would be, but with this war what it has become, I am certain that Vayne or Emperor Margrace or even Marquis Ondore—if Your Majesty will forgive me—would scarcely hesitate to use nethicite against one another."

"And you explained this to my uncle?" the princess asked. "You told him what it would do?"

"I did. He played along, but I did not sense that he had been persuaded."

"Even knowing what it's capable of?"

"That is the sentiment I found in him, yes."

"Then the marquis—he is set on war?"

He leaned back against a sideboard—it was polished in the traditional Archadian style, but the tapestry running long over its surface was of a rustic Landisian weave, and the decanter and glasses set atop it were distinctly Rozarrian, as was the silver tray that held them. "The time approaches," Reddas explained, "when he must make his position vis-à-vis the Empire clear. When he helped you off the _Leviathan_ , he spited the Judges full sore; he cannot sit in idleness and expect to avoid a reckoning. The marquis shares my distaste for war, yet if it comes to it, he will show no quarter."

"But Larsa's willing to negotiate," Penelo injected. "I mean, he's going to convince his brother to talk with us—with you." She nodded toward the princess. "All we have to do is hold up our end of the deal, remember? We get the marquis to talk with Vayne, and there won't be any fighting."

Reddas laughed softly, flashing the girl a warm smile before turning his eyes briefly to the floor and back up. "You must be Larsa's little friend."

"Huh?"

"He's full of the same optimism. Let us hope it spreads."

"Optimism will not be able to prevent this war alone," Ashe told Penelo.

"Well…" the girl went on, a cranberry restive in her fingers, "what if the Resistance can take it? You know, what if they win the fight?"

Balthier glanced to the ceiling and sucked in a breath. "Now we've gone from optimism to flat-out foolishness."

"I'm just trying to help," Penelo replied, popping the berry into her mouth.

"As long as the nethicite's in play," said Basch, "the marquis won't stand a chance. It's just what Vayne wants. He'll lure the Rozarrians and the Resistance to the field, then crush them both with the nethicite."

Now Balthier smirked, leaning one hip against the table and folding his arms. "Lucky for us," he said, "Cid has the stone. We can follow him, smash the nethicite to pieces with Raithwall's sword, and relieve Vayne of his secret weapon."

"But Cid's going to Giruvegan," said Penelo.

"We have a map," Balthier answered. "Sort of." He pulled it from his vest pocket—folded into quarters, barely a sketch.

"You really mean to follow that thing?" Ashe asked.

Balthier glared.

"He's survived worse ideas," Fran replied.

"We're working with professionals, remember?" Penelo continued, leaning over the table and pressing the soft cheese onto a triangle of unleavened wheat bread. "And we have to get the nethicite away from the Empire somehow." She gestured with the bread. "May as well just start, right? Even if we don't know where we're going, it's better than wasting time." And she took a bite.

Ashe gave Penelo a subtle glare that did nothing to mask her agreement, and Reddas laughed once more.

"Fly first, ask questions later," he said to Balthier with a hint of pride. "The lass is more pirate than you are."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Balthier shot back.

Ashe crossed her arms, loosening one foot free from the rug and letting it swing forward in a step that went nowhere. "I suppose no real decisions can be made until we know what we have to work with," she admitted, arms dropping to her sides, one hand rising to tuck some hair behind her ear. "We'll take our chances with Giruvegan and go from there."

Fran looked to Balthier, and could not discern what she saw on his face. She thought perhaps that this place—Giruvegan—was mentioned in stories the Viera told on nights of the new moon, but she recalled it having a different name, perhaps being a different world. And it occurred to her then that the tales of the Viera were no more or less complicated than the tales of the humans—just different words, and different endings.


	58. Chapter LVII

_LVII._

Basch was growing weary of airships. They had his gratitude for carrying the princess and her attendants over the deserts of Dalmasca and the mountains of Nabradia and everywhere they'd been in between, but he felt indelibly disconnected when aboard them, somehow unmoored and drifting at the will of the wind. He stood over the sleeping princess, glad to be slowing for landing, but unhappy that he would have to wake her. Discoloration still spread across her face with her nose as its epicenter, but he suspected that the darkness beneath her eyes was owed as much to sleeplessness as to bruising, and knew that she would push herself onward through her exhaustion once she woke.

Reddas had invited them to stay the night, but Ashe had been too driven, too restless after witnessing what she had at Draklor. She had chosen to go in search of Giruvegan immediately, and they had flown all night and well into the next day, clumsily following the rough map recovered from Cid's office and constantly coming up empty. But now there was land on the horizon of clouds, and the _Strahl's_ momentum was slacking, the hum of the engine dulling, and the subtle noises of the landing routine announced their arrival, though none of them quite knew where.

The princess stirred, and Basch drew back, knocking into the row of cots stacked up the opposite wall. The room was scarcely more than a hallway, beds lining the walls like shelves. Ashe rolled onto her stomach and stretched out the fingers of one hand across her pillow.

"Princess," Basch said quietly, and the hand clenched, her eyes tightening.

She groaned.

"We're here, Majesty."

And she finally opened her eyes and pushed herself up—the cot above hers hung too low for her to sit up straight.

"Giruvegan?" she asked.

"We're not sure."

She stood up and headed toward the cockpit door, pausing in front of it to study herself in the mirror hung on its back. "Oh, gods," she said, dabbing her fingers along the bruises.

"It's getting better," Basch assured her.

She ran her fingers through her hair quickly. "I hardly look like a queen."

He shrugged. "You look like a general."

And he caught the barest flash of a grin in the mirror before she pushed the door open and strode through it.

"A floating island," Balthier was saying in answer to her inquiries when Basch caught up.

"Bhujerba?" she asked.

"No. Up north of Archadia, like the on the map." He handed the paper back to her, keeping his eyes on the window ahead. The _Strahl's_ spinning glossair rings were clearing the Mist away to reveal the smooth stone ground beneath the ship, but the fog was thick and insistent, clouding back in only seconds after blowing back. A thud announced contact, the Mist closing in around them. "We've mostly been following Fran's nose the last half-hour or so," Balthier added.

The princess turned to Fran, who flicked her ears a bit and shut off the last of the _Strahl's_ power. "Mist is congregating here. It reflects the ocean and the sky, so the island seems invisible."

Balthier stood and crossed the cockpit, heading into the hall Ashe and Basch had just exited. "We damn near crashed into this bloody rock."

The others followed him, disembarking into a world of active, shifting Mist and lavender-hued stone, blue in some areas, white in others. The was air dense, a chilling, persistent Mist clearing their throats with every breath, but blocking visibility after only a few meters. The perfect atmosphere for an ambush, Basch thought, but with all sides open, he had no indication of which direction might prove most vulnerable. He touched Ashelia's shoulder lightly, and she turned with a glare, but it smoothed from her face as opaque vapor rolled between them, reflecting a tenuous image of each to the other before fading to white.

"Alright," she said, reaching out, gripping his sleeve. And then she called to the others: "Keep close."

"Whoa…" Penelo had already vanished, her voice distant and echoing.

"Penelo," Balthier called.

"I'm right here!"

"No, you're not."

An illusion of her wavered into clarity beside him, but her voice came from the opposite direction. Fran had rolled her ears into conical funnels as though closing out an atrocious noise, and speaking seemed difficult for her, but she called out all the same:

"Turn around and walk forward."

"I can see you right—" Penelo was cut off when she bumped into Balthier's back. "Oh."

He turned and ushered her toward Basch and the princess. "Keep close, indeed."

They gathered in, but it did nothing to sooth Basch's nerves. Draklor had been a labyrinth of locked doors and armed guards, but this was a labyrinth of invisibility: no walls, no corners, and yet potential threats loomed always just beyond the veil. Ashelia hooked her arm through his and led the group forward, but he drew her back after a few steps and took his place ahead of her, a shield against anything the might lurk in the white.

After a few more steps, Fran stepped up next to him, venturing even a few paces ahead before she stopped and shook her head deftly, drawing in a deep breath.

"What is it?" Ashe asked.

Fran blinked, surveying what was visible and listening for what was not. "The Mist runs thick here," she said quietly.

"Like on the _Leviathan_?" Penelo asked.

And at this she allowed her an airy smile. "Don't worry. I will behave myself. This Mist is cooled. But I sense something like a shadow here."

"Venat," Balthier replied.

Suddenly the Mist parted, like a clearing amid the thick of a wood, and a great stone arch soared out of the clouds, high above their heads, its surface gleaming in the cold sun and its face engraved with runes. It was cut of the same stone beneath their feet, but polished, glossy, the swirls of blue and violet more blended and graceful than the jagged striations of the ground. The group stood in silence for a moment.

"Well," Balthier said at length. "That's convenient."

"Whoa!" Penelo ran toward it. "It's huge!" The arch seemed to rise even higher as she neared it. The _Strahl_ could fly through it with room to spare. "Who built this?"

"Only the Archadians have been here," said Basch.

"As far as we know," Ashe added.

She left his side and started forward, the massive structure looming over her, glinting sunlight off its pearly façade. Penelo was already running her fingers along the stone when they reached her, and Ashe joined in, fingers passing deftly over the slick surface, a near mirror-image of her hand reflecting beneath it, drifting sometimes just a split second behind the real one, a lag so subtle that Basch wondered if he had seen it at all.

The arch appeared to be hewn of a single stone, and the fine polish shone at times with a crystalline quality that faded with the shifting of the Mist. The inscriptions varied from blocky to curly, from geometric to quill-like. The Mist obscured their view of what lay beyond, but it seemed invariably an entryway—Ashe wandered from the clearing that surrounded it and into the clouds of Mist, and when Basch followed, she was reaching into the fog and laying her palms on a sturdy wall behind the veil. She crossed to the other side, silvery Mist collapsing in around her like crumbling walls.

"Princess," Basch called.

"I won't go far," she replied.

"Don't be difficult."

She stepped out into the open beside him, and he startled, having perceived her voice as farther off ahead. "I thought I was the royal one," she told him, folding her arms.

"All the more reason not to go missing," he replied with a nod.

"Uh oh." It came from Balthier, who was looking back the way they came.

The Mist was closing in behind them, engulfing the _Strahl_ , and filling the entryway within the arch.

"An intricate working," Fran noted. "Whoever built this place was skilled with the Mist."

"Is that good or bad?" Ashe asked.

"I'm afraid they are both foreign concepts to Mist," said Fran. "It is programmed as it was within the Midlight Shard, but not against its will. This Mist is cooperating. It wants to do what it's been bidden to do."

"Do you think we should turn back?" Ashe asked.

Fran looked out to the white abyss and blinked, ears flexing inquisitively toward the distance before rolling tight again. "I think you are welcome here," she said. "Or you are wanted here, rather. I cannot judge our hosts until we meet them."

The cloud of Mist beyond the archway reflected it back at them, a second monument facing the real one—assuming, Basch thought, that there even was a real one. Ashe looked up to him.

"Captain?"

He blinked, turned down to meet her eyes.

"Should we leave?" she asked.

It took him a moment to realize that she was earnest, that she was asking his opinion, rather than grudgingly accepting it when forced on her. It had been a while since she'd done that. "I think we never should have come here," he answered. "But you're the royal one."

She smirked, and looked back to the archway. Balthier was again dragging Penelo from the Mist—or rather, chasing after flickering reflections of her while she chased after wavering images of him. Fran strode forward to help. Basch glanced to her and hesitated: she was not staring at the group, or the arch, or the Mist beyond; she was fixed solely on Balthier.

"He's been awfully quiet lately," he told her.

"It's hard for him," she replied.

"Hm." He paused for a moment, studying the softness of her face and the intensity of her gaze, and then asked, "Seriously?"

"What?" She turned to him, eyes wide and voice low. "Don't be ridiculous!"

He shrugged and looked away.

"We're going in," she said, the waved to the others, who all gathered closed and made their way towards her. "Come on."

The walls narrowed beyond the great stone entryway, a maze of high-walled tunnels, lit by magicite and watched over by ornate carvings that loomed in the dim shadows of the ceiling—a ceiling that they became aware of only gradually, the foggy white sunlight nearly identical to the blue haze of magicite. Mist wafted through the winding corridors, and condensation glistened on the walls, though no plants grew in its wake. The stone was identical to the arch that had welcomed them, but as the light faded and the Mist thickened, the gleam seemed somehow natural. Basch thought it was similar to the halls of the great palace that had once stood on the mountainside of Nabudis, but this polish was even thicker, and likely held even higher value.

The reflections of the group passed along the walls beside them, but never seemed entirely accurate—the princess appearing one his right side when he could feel the tug of her arm on his left, Penelo trailing behind the group, and then appearing suddenly bounding ahead. They held onto each other in a chain, but the order seemed to shift, the Mist projecting one image, the walls another, and their own sense of touch a third. Ashe had held onto Penelo at first, but the girl was too bouncy, too nervous or eager or giddy to hold still, and Balthier had eventually hooked her by one arm while Fran kept hold of the other. Ashelia held Balthier's other hand, their fingers deft against each other, barely touching, not looking at each other.

No trace of any recognizable culture presented itself, no hints as to who or what could have constructed the grand monument, or at what time or to what purpose. They huddled closer and closer together as the halls grew darker and darker around them. The Mist perpetually blocked their path, and the glow of the magicite often replicated its illusions, giving form to two or three sets of reflections at a time, always vanishing before anyone could grant them thorough study.

"Somehow," Balthier said at length, "I don't see this ending well for any of us."

"And you think your cynicism is going to help?" asked Basch.

Balthier laughed. "It's never steered me wrong before."

Presently, they came to a solid wall—a dead end, so it seemed—on which there was etched a sprawling mural that depicted many humans prostrated before a great glowing stone held aloft on a pedestal. There was no color to the etching, save for the swirls of blue and lavender in the surface, which had arranged themselves into streaks and whorls that complimented the delicate lines of the engraving beyond any natural variation. A man stood before the stone, sword drawn, and it was unclear if the people in the painting bowed to the stone or to the man.

"Is that nethicite?" Ashe asked, receiving only worrisome looks in response. She touched her fingers to the wall, tracing them over the carved figure. The stone on the pedestal was twice the size of the man's head. "With that much…"

"We could destroy all of Ivalice." Francesca spoke bluntly, drawing the attention of the others. "If we wished it," she finished after a moment.

"They mine magicite in Bhujerba," said Penelo. "You think maybe they mine nethicite here?"

"That would explain why the place is bloody empty," Balthier answered.

"Maybe we should go back," Penelo suggested. "I mean, so we can look closer. If this is a mine, we might have missed something."

"It's possible," Ashe replied. "And if not, we may as well turn back anyway. Come on."

They inspected the floor and the walls—what they could reach of them, what they could see of them—shooing away the Mist to gain a clearer view only to have it sweep back in around them moments later. The princess seemed dazed, trailing after Basch, her fingers loose on his arm. She stopped when he stopped, and looked over her shoulder absently, expression vacant, oblivious to his stare.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked.

She straightened, eyes alert. "Of course."

"This doesn't feel right," he continued.

Ashe let go of him and stepped ahead. "You're being a babysitter again."

"Can you blame me?"

"According to Penelo, you aren't half as cautious on your own."

"Ashe." She paused, turning and meeting his eyes. "Don't forget Nabudis."

She studied his expression for a moment, eyes taking on a blue cast in the light of the magicite, and then she wrinkled her nose and walked away. He swallowed a sigh and followed after her, but she had barely turned a corner when her arm jerked as though an invisible grasp had seized it. The Mist churned abruptly, parting from her just long enough for Basch to watch as she was dragged through the stone as though it were a no more than a pool of water. He lurched forward, hands on the wall, but it was solid, cold, and the Mist fell upon him, muffling his voice as he called her name.


	59. Chapter LVIII

_LVIII._

The cold clamp of pressure on Ashelia's arm released her as quickly as it had taken her. She stood seemingly on the clouds, though a pulsating energy thrummed beneath her feet. Vast puffs of Mist swirled around her, reflecting her image with precision at first and a wavering haziness when she swiped a hand through it. The sun struggled to press its way through the clouds, the world around her gleaming bright powder blue with a morning-glow sheen. She glanced over her right shoulder, and then over her left.

"Captain?" she called. "Basch?"

"Fear not, princess of Dalmasca."

The voice resonated from the distance, trembling, ethereal. Ashe spun on her heel, but found only a billow of Mist at her back.

"We have chosen you and you alone," the voice told her, and she thought she caught a flicker of movement beyond the clouds—a glistening figure, perhaps reflected in the Mist. He wavered slightly, both in presence and in movement, and then turned to face her, as though he had heard her calling out to him, though she felt for sure that she hadn't. Then, as clearly as she had seen him on their wedding day, she recognized Rasler, though his image once again faltered amid the dense fog between them. Fading briefly, he seemed to have disappeared, but he flickered into sight again, more distant, walking away from her as the Mist closed in behind him. A far-off call sounded—her name, she was sure of it—and she stepped forward, but lost sight of him in a blink.

She had seen him in the maze of Mist-clogged corridors that led her here—had seen him beside the great stone arch when they first arrived, and followed flashes of his smile all through the narrowing tunnels. But now she saw only her own reflection in the fog, her features imitated in perfect detail, though the expression on the reflection's face only rarely seemed to accurately mimic her own. Her shadow fell on the clouds in varying degrees of darkness, moving sometimes in ways she was not, and just when it seemed to stretch a little too tall in front of her, the nearest shadow grew eyes.

Ashe jumped back, the Mist thick at her back as though a crowd of strangers had dispersed behind her—as though they had fled just shy of touching her. The shadow took on a vaguely triangular form, and rose out of the Mist, shimmering, elusive as the skin of a bubble. Ashelia fell still as a ray of sun filtered through the creature and danced at her feet, then stumbled over what she intended to be a demand: "Wh—who…"

"My name is Gerun." The voice floated unevenly on the clouds, neither male nor female, weak nor strong. She shuddered. "I come to you representing all others who are as myself."

"Gods?" Ashe asked.

"So others have called us, but we call ourselves Occuria, for we have named all others in Ivalice and will not be named by them in turn."

Ashe shook her head. "I—I didn't mean to presume—"

"Calm your doubts, Ashelia; we offer you our assistance. One of our kind works alongside your enemy—one named Venat. Doctor Cid follows blindly what he perceives to be divine instruction, and this has led to turmoil in Ivalice. Through you, we intend to make right these wrongs."

"You—" She turned her face just slightly to the side, eyes leveled on the creature, but seeking others on the periphery. She could see only Mist. "You've done this before, haven't you?" she asked. "It was you who aided Raithwall in the last war."

A flutter of sunlight set the parameters of Gerun's figure: a swirling shadow like finely wrought armor, an almost human-like torso that faded into a tail of smoke where she sought to find legs. Only the head was distinct, a golden light demarking the eyes, though she could not say whether the light shone from within the being itself or merely broke through from behind it the way the sunlight pierced the Mist.

There were others there—she could feel them, unsettled presences, jostling only faintly but shifting the Mist around them all the same. Faint forms took shape in the distance, wrapped in vapor, eyes glinting.

"Yes," said Gerun, "very good. Unfortunately, his reign has not lasted. We see your heart desires power, and power most holy shall we grant. Seek you the Sun Cryst, our slumbering star—in tower on distant shore, it dreams. The mother of all nethicite, the source of its unending power. The Dynast King's fallow shards were but coarse trinkets cut from the Sun Cryst's light."

Ashe took a quick step forward. "Such power exists?"

"In times that are long passed away," Gerun explained, "we Occuria lived on a shining land beyond the sea. But calamity struck, and our home was blown apart, sent flying into the sky and colonized by the humans who had come to breathe on the far continent they still call home."

The Mist drew back, falling low and receding, and Ashe thought she saw a great sea of gathered Occuria—thousands, and more in the distance—but then could only count a dozen, and was not sure even of their solidity.

"A lighthouse we built," Gerun continued, "grand and towering, and set atop it our greatest treasure, our greatest creation, shining bright over all the world to bring our people back together. Peace we found on Giruvegan—this lone island that remained to us—but our numbers were decimated, and we had no need of other lands."

The creature floated forward, as near to her as she would let one of her guards stand to address her. She took a step back.

"Indeed," it said, "we came to admire your kind, Princess—we would not war for your islands even had we need of them. But our compassion was too great—for all the virtues of humankind, they are a foolish breed in masses, and we could not bear to watch them slaughter each other, for grand purposes or frivolous ones. We thought to save this Ivalice, and chose Raithwall, the noblest of humans. He took the sword we bestowed upon him and cut the Cryst in its distant tower—we no longer had need of its light. Three shards he took from its gilt grasp, and so became the Dynast King. His words and deeds run through your veins."

Ashelia reached back, fingers trailing up the hilt of the sword that weighed heavily on her back. "That's why I was given his sword," she said, hand coming forward empty, brushing against her collarbone as she lowered it once more.

"The treaty held with kings of old is but a memory, cold and still," said Gerun. "But all the same, by own reckoning, and by the count of our long lives, we remain your servants, treaty-bound. With you, we shall now treat anew, to cut a run for history's flow."

Mist gathered between them, gaining density and taking shape. There momentarily appeared a silvery, shining sword, which hovered within her grasp, though she felt uneasy at the thought of touching it.

Gerun's voice vibrated onward: "Now take this sword, our treaty blade—Occurian steel, mark of your worth. Raithwall's blade utilizes the power stored within the stone to rupture it from the surface and in, but the weapon we give to you, Ashelia, will cut new shards without destruction, without violence, charged and uncharged alike."

Ashe leaned away from the blade—it glinted a pale turquoise, runes inscribed on it everywhere they would fit—and faintly shook her head.

Geruns eyes glowed behind the hilt. "Take your blade as Raithwall took his," it said. "Cut deep the Cryst, and seize your shards. Wield the Dynast King's power, and use it to destroy Venat."

"But…" Ashe stuttered, eyes narrowed, mouth soft. "Isn't Venat an Occurian?"

"Venat is a heretic!"

And she jumped back again, squinting her eyes shut against the gale of wind Gerun's outburst forced over her.

"The nethicite is ours to give," it insisted, "to chosen bearer or to none. The heretic trespassed, and set the rose of knowledge in humanity's hands. With imitations, they profane; with imitations, they destroy. We give you now the stone and task. Administer judgment: destroy them all."

"Judgment?" Ashe asked.

But Gerun faded, its edges blurring, and the Mist once again assembled, this time behind the sword, this time taking a human form. Her eyes grew cold as Rasler's empty visage shimmered before her, tinged silvery white in the sunlight, fleeting but never vanishing, new vapors coalescing as the others weakened and evaporated. The blade between them flickered.

"A great purge of those who would let foolish creatures have dominion over our Ivalice," Gerun continued, golden eyes swirling with light. "You shall do as King Raithwall once did—destroy those who oppose your superior rule, and replace them with more suitable houses."

"The Empire?" Ashe asked, eyes set on Rasler.

"When House Rozarria refused Raithwall's treaty, they were cut down that House Margrace might serve in their stead. When House Archadia sought to defend the Rozarrian rebels, they were crushed, and their throne given to House Solidor."

Her eyes snapped from Rasler's to Gerun's. "What?"

The creature shifted, edges rippling like water. "You take your history from the pages of books—from the words of mortals. We have lived our history. Only in us does the truth reside."

"Then you would have me reforge the Galtean Alliance?" Ashe asked.

"Reforge and strengthen—for the good of all humans. The Houses of Margrace and Solidor are shamed—blasphemous. Their blood must be spent, and their inheritance returned to its rightful proprietor: you, our chosen representative, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, the Dynast Queen."

"But why destroy them?" she asked, one hand gesturing, her head shaking against her will. "Every line has a weak link. Is that really enough to—"

"It is more than enough!" Gerun insisted. "The houses must be extinguished. Dalmasca shall know no borders—truly, in time, Ivalice will come to be known solely as Dalmasca. Rozarria drew war across your land. Archadia stole away your freedom. What they have done will be done to them."

Ashelia grit her teeth. "You would have me lower myself to such measures?"

"Lower?" the Occuria scoffed, its black lacquer body gleaming in the sunlight. "Lower yourself to save humanity? Differing countries bring only violence to each other—you know this well. You will rule them as one country. Follow in Raithwall's footsteps: bring peace to Ivalice."

Ashe looked down. The creature was dark—black and shining, reflecting the light of the sun into her eyes. And Rasler was faint—transparent, the delicate tendrils that held aloft the sword before him seeming almost tangible by comparison. And the others, veiled in Mist—fifty of them perhaps, or maybe ten: they were watching, whispers rolling through the clouds, most of them unintelligible, many of them identical to her name.

"For the good of all?" the princess asked quietly.

"Indeed." The voice grew gentler, contemplative, and the dark figure among the clouds wavered in its solidity. "The humans ever skew history's weave. With haste, they move through too-short lives. Driven to err by base desires, toward waste and wasting—on they run. Undying, we Occuria light the path for wayward children of mortality. Oft did we pass judgment on them, so that Ivalice might endure. We are history's eternal stewards, to set the course and keep it true. The chosen is our hand—our fist—to let live some and crush the rest. Princess, you have been chosen. Take revenge against those who stole your kingdom. Fulfill your role as savior. Attain your birthright."

She blinked slowly, fighting the Mist—it had a mesmerizing effect: dizzying, almost soothing. Once again, she looked to the shimmering image of her husband. A smile, it seemed, overcame his expression, but the mirage fluttered and faded, a subtle vibration of sound permeating the illusion and scattering its lines. The sword's song: she had heard it since the moment the great weapon materialized, and mistook it for the Occuria, mistook it for her name. It was resonant—uplifting—a joyous and comforting sound, and Ashelia didn't even notice the absence of her wedding ring as she reached her hand out for the hilt. The hum choked to an abrupt silence when she seized the Mist-born sword. Rasler vanished in a wisp of Mist. And then she felt the nakedness of her finger.

"Ashe!"

She turned, feeling the whip of her short hair against her neck, and Penelo charged up to her out of the Mist.

"What's with these Occuria things?" she demanded. "What gives them the right to tell you what to do?"

Ashe looked back over her shoulder, but no trace of Gerun remained, no sound or wave of warmth radiating from the clouds that surrounded her, the host vanished with their leader. Only the princess and the sword remained.

"Penelo." She reached out with her free hand, stepping forward, taking the girl's hand and clutching it.

Penelo grasped her, one arm linking through hers and grounding her, and the Mist dissipated at their feet, dissolving into the stonework of the weakly throbbing floor beneath them. No walls fended off the noon sunlight, and the cobbled platform on which they stood appeared to be held aloft by nothing of mortal construction, though she did spy a staircase at the far end of it, from whence the others came toward her.

"Will you take revenge, as it asks?" Fran asked.

Ashe's eyes widened, and she turned to Basch for an answer.

"We could not see it," he explained, "but we heard it speak."

"You're not gonna do it, right Ashe?" Penelo went on. "I mean, you're gonna do it—of course you are—but you won't kill everyone, right?" Her hands were cold on Ashe's arm, but her grip was firm. "You'll just get Dalmasca back and leave it at that, won't you?"

"The Empire must pay," Basch added, "but destruction is not the way of Dalmasca."

Ashe shook her head, knuckles white on the sword. "According to them, it is very much the way of Dalmasca."

"Perhaps a compromise," said Fran. "Not total destruction, just the threat of it?"

"All it would take is a demonstration on Vayne," Penelo replied. "You wouldn't have to hurt Larsa."

Finally, Balthier stepped in, conspicuously close to the princess's side. "She's the one it wanted to talk to; why don't we just let her decide?"

Ashe's eyes fell to the blade in her hand, and she chewed her lip, the warmth of Balthier's body beating back the chill of the Mist. He spoke up again:

"No need to rush, anyway. We've officially screwed ourselves over for the time being."

"What?" asked Ashe.

"We beat Doctor Cid here!" Penelo added.

"He's not coming," Balthier replied. "Never was. He laid out the bait, and we bit. All that flaunting back at the lab, just to bring Ashe to the Occuria. Cocky old bastard."

Penelo released Ashe's hand, but kept her other arm looped around her elbow. "But if we get a hold of the nethicite," she said, "wouldn't that be bad for the Empire?"

"How do we know he's in this for the Empire?" Balthier replied, stepping away. "Maybe he wants to see what happens when foes with nethicite collide. That would be just like him."

"His motives don't matter at this point," said the princess. "We must find the Sun Cryst first, right?"

"Is that a question?" Fran asked.

Ashe grit her teeth.

"How are we supposed to find it if all we have to go on is a 'tower on a distant shore?'" Basch interjected.

"Maybe we can go back to Reddas for help," said Penelo.

Balthier huffed a small laugh. "I'd rather stay out of that pirate's debt, thank you. I owe him enough as it is—and this may get him more involved than he cares to be."

Ashe started toward the staircase. "Well, that's his problem, isn't it?" she asked, but it wasn't a question, and Balthier knew it.

Basch walked at her left and Penelo at her right, and she thought she caught sight of a smirk on Fran's face as she passed. Balthier was as silent as the Viera, but somehow Ashe knew that he was following her.


	60. Chapter LIX

_LIX._

The sun had finally set, and it was twilight in Archades. Vayne was relieved, though he couldn't entirely say why; it seemed like the throne room had cooled somehow, and all the city settled. The sun had illuminated the crimson banners and carpet, set a burnished light to the gold inlays of the throne, but now shade overtook the room, only a few magicite lamps glowing low, blues and plums and shadowy grays overtaking the farthest corners. He stood at the great windows that looked over the western horizon, his brother tiny but fervent at his side.

"Make amends with Lady Ashelia and restore Dalmasca's sovereignty," the boy was insisting. "It's the only way to avert war."

Vayne sighed, gazing down from the distance and into the courtyard below. "It is a war of necessity—your Lady Ashelia is bent on it."

Just like Larsa, to be so glaringly positive. Their father would have preemptively addressed the issue—his rule had been built on preemptive strikes—but Vayne hoped to make it last a bit longer, however irritating it could be under certain circumstances.

"I don't think she wants revenge," Larsa went on, staring up at him. "She is harsh, I know, but she's compassionate, too. She understands remorse—she'll accept an apology."

"Perhaps she will," Vayne admitted, "but her people won't be so understanding."

"That's why you have to do it soon. If you blame Father for the occupation and publicly declare that you intend to make right his wrongs, they'll see Archadia in an entirely new light."

"They'll see it as weakened."

"They'll see it as dignified."

Vayne sighed. "You are young, Larsa."

"And you're presumptuous."

He could feel one eyebrow arch, but was powerless to smooth it back down, too much energy spent on fighting back a smirk.

"We're evenly matched," said Larsa. "Archadia and Rozarria, I mean. But we're bleeding resources, and holding out the war will destroy us both. What's to stop the conquered territories from banding together under Ashelia's rule and taking their freedom back from us? What's to stop them from crushing us in the process?"

"The old Archadia is better than no Archadia?" Vayne asked.

"Exactly. We can't maintain this."

"We can if we remove Rozarria from the equation."

A sigh sounded behind them, and they both turned to Cid, who had for the past half hour been doing his best to keep the debate at bay. "Will you two give it a rest?" he asked. "It's a heavy sight—brothers fighting."

"We're not fighting," they replied in unison.

"Larsa," he went on, "I thought you hated politics."

"Not at all," the boy answered, stepping away from Vayne. "It's just that there are so many more important things."

"Not lately, eh?"

He smiled, glancing to the floor, but said nothing.

"I don't see what you two think you will accomplish by depriving me of still more sleep," Vayne continued, taking slow strides toward the center of the room. "We've got the world right where we want it. The Resistance is hopeless and Bhujerba will go peacefully once the marquis is taken care of."

"But can we handle war with Rozarria?" asked Cid. "We may have a good deal of power, but our dear conquered subjects will defect the first chance they get."

Vayne withheld a sigh, Larsa jumping in with enthusiasm. Vayne had trained with the blade from an age he could neither count nor recall, kept up with it all this time in the deluded hope that it might actually solve any of his problems, and he had seen Larsa fence—he had taught him most of what he knew and sparred with him on more occasions than he could count—but that had all been in play. Now he seemed quite seriously interested in war, in death, in killing.

And perhaps he had only himself to blame, Vayne thought: Larsa would never allow himself to be excluded from any matter that so wholly devoured his brother's attention. It would only take a distraction—something more interesting than war, and the boy would pay this business no attention. He had gotten by this far, after all: his brother growing, regaining his wounded happiness; his father's sword at his side, consoling him that he was not the worst tyrant House Solidor had set forth. Vayne was almost as good at fixing things as he was at breaking them.

"Archadia is more powerful than it's ever been," Vayne stepped in, Cid and Larsa aligned against him now. "Our power has grown in accordance with our conquests."

"But the power isn't worth the reputation," Larsa replied. "Everybody's afraid of us—if your control lapses for even a moment, we'll be a prime target."

"But that fear," Vayne countered, "is the only thing that keeps me in control."

"We have Father to blame for that," Larsa replied. "At least you should have no trouble convincing them we do."

"True," he admitted, "but I can't afford to rely solely on the trust of my people until this war has been won."

"Is it possible to win a war?" There was a pause as Vayne and Cid looked on him uncomprehendingly, and he clarified: "I mean, isn't every war a loss? As much as I regret Father's death, it's left you with a great opportunity."

"I can't just blame everything on him," Vayne sighed.

"Why not?" Larsa pressed. "They don't call him 'Gramis the Conqueror' without good reason."

Vayne shook his head, though a pang of pride threatened to break his composure. "Cid?" he asked. "A little help here?"

"Apologies, Excellency," Cid said with a smile. "I think Larsa's on to something. Rozarria is scared witless of you; if you put Archadia in a less powerful position, this ever-looming war might die down."

"Or they'll just take us for all we're worth," Vayne groaned.

"Not if the princess sides with us," Cid replied. "She stands to rule Dalmasca and Nabradia. If they trust us, we won't need to continue the occupation."

"Why have servants when you can have friends, right?" added Larsa.

Vayne eyed the boy carefully, trying perhaps a bit too hard to sum up his motivation. "You're using her," he said at last.

Larsa smiled. "No more than she's using me." At this, Vayne cast a gaze on him that wavered between shock and respect, but Larsa did not seem to notice—or else did not seem to care—reverting back to the issue at hand. "Look. A major component of the Nalbina treaty was that you marry her, so you can start by throwing that part out and then move on to more political matters. It will take some sucking up, but you can gain her trust eventually."

"It's the 'political matters' that worry me," said Vayne. "She has no reason to cooperate with me, and simply breaking off some trumped-up engagement isn't going to give her one."

"Slow down, Vayne," Cid interceded. "I'm sure he's thought that out, too."

"Flattering sarcasm, Cid," said Larsa.

"I pride myself on it," he replied.

"One of her biggest problems right now," Larsa continued, "is freeing Dalmasca without leaving Nabradia behind. She needs that alliance more than anything."

Vayne raised an eyebrow. "You want me to release them both?"

"No. I want you to release them both, and at the same time release Landis as well."

It almost stung, and it must have shown in Vayne's expression, because Larsa quickly explained:

"If you free Dalmasca and Nabradia, Landis will ally with them immediately, and it's only a matter of time before Rozarria joins in. By setting them all free at once, they all have reason to remain on good terms with Archadia and stay away from Rozarria."

"Allies?" Vayne asked.

He nodded. "Exactly. You could start by reinstating the Senate. Have all new members elected while we still hold occupation. That way we could legally have representatives of all three territories on hand to discuss our withdrawal, and when it's all said and done, you can restore Archadia as an independent nation. If you keep up appearances, you can work it in your favor."

"Tell them we are dependent on our occupied territories? Do you really think they'll fall for that?"

"Politics is just a bunch of lies anyway, isn't it?"

"And you condone this?"

"If it's for the greater good."

Vayne again looked him over critically, and the boy hardened somewhat, almost a challenge:

"What? I've never disappointed you before?"

"Never like this."

"I guess that's why you're Emperor and I'm not."

The towering doors at the end of the room opened quietly, spilling a yellow stream of light across the floor that was quickly blocked as Gabranth entered. "Forgive my interruption, Excellencies," he said with a short nod, "but bedtime has passed."

Larsa smirked. "That might be a factor as well."

This got a laugh out of Cid and a small smile out of Vayne, but the emperor knew that Larsa would not be leaving until some resolution was met, so he spoke up once more: "Gabranth, you always have perfect timing." Gabranth shifted a bit, and Vayne cast his gaze back to Larsa. "You trust Gabranth, don't you?"

"Of course."

Gabranth shifted—just slightly. The scrape of metal resonated on the marble floor.

"Then send him to the princess," Vayne went on. "She may well be using your trust for her own gain, and I would enact your plan only if I was certain otherwise. A young royal she might think easy to take advantage of, but a Judge will put her in her place."

Larsa cocked his head. "Threaten her, you mean."

"Well, that too."

"She'll maintain her position; she's not afraid of us or the Judges."

"Then what harm could it deal?"

A moment of hesitation settled, and when Larsa spoke, his voice seemed unnervingly childlike: "Will this convince you she's honest?"

"In all likelihood, yes," Vayne assured him.

"Then you leave me no choice."

"Very well, then." The emperor turned once more to Gabranth. "Gabranth, I would have you seek after the Lady Ashelia as soon as possible to adjudge whether she makes overtures of peace or war. Should you espy peace, you will arrange a meeting between her and me to discuss the release of her country from occupation; if not, you will defend Archadia as your oaths have instructed you."

"It will not come to that, I'm sure," Larsa added quickly.

"As you will," Gabranth sighed. "Now, if you're quite finished here…"

"Right. Sorry." Larsa shook his head and turned to Vayne. "Goodnight, Brother."

"Goodnight."

He offered a small, tight smile and headed for the doors, nodding to Cid in passing. "Cid."

Cid returned the gesture. "Larsa."

As the boy left at Gabranth's side, the room seemed to cool even further—a chill, Vayne thought—and he couldn't hold back a subtle wince as the great doors shut.

"No hug?" Cid asked.

Vayne blinked once, but kept his gaze fixed on the doors that separated him from his brother. "Not since Father passed."

" _Passed_ , eh?" Cid replied with a small huff. "Hm. That so sweet a child could be your brother is hard to believe."

"Larsa is as he should be, and he'll remain so as long as I have any say in it."

"Which won't be long, by the look of things."

Now Vayne clasped his hands behind his back and set his jaw tightly, and said in a low tone, "Yes, he is becoming difficult…"

"Well, you'd best brace yourself," Cid warned. "Another year or two and he'll be impossible."

"This is normal, isn't it?"

"Oh, certainly. Maybe not so young, but Larsa's always been a little ahead of his time."

"A little?" Vayne scoffed. "He's ten years old, and already he's running off with girls and questioning every authority figure he encounters."

"He's growing up," Cid reasoned.

"He's too young to grow up," Vayne replied.

Cid seemed amused—but then again, Cid always seemed amused.

The matter was grave, though. Rumors had begun to spread in the Empire that Larsa was not Gramis's son, but rather Vayne's, a dozen different tales of scandal parsing out the details. Some even suspected the boy of more advanced age than he let on, and wondered if in fact his true father might be one of Gramis's elder sons. Vayne hoped the boy would grow to take after his mother as time passed, and thought for a moment that he had discussed it with her once—or perhaps they had discussed Vayne himself resembling his father, or his father resembling some portrait or another in one of the halls. Or perhaps they had never discussed anything at all. Sometimes he struggled to keep it straight.

"Please don't hate me," she had said, when he should have begged it of her. Forgiveness was a strange thing, so rarely deserved where it was given, so rarely given where it was deserved. Punishment was strange, too, he thought.

"I know it." And she left. But she didn't know half of what he had done or what he deserved; she didn't know, like Larsa didn't know. Or did Larsa know? It was difficult to read him these days.

"Look at it this way, Vayne." He turned to Cid, hardly processed that he was still speaking. "As a child, he thought you were perfect, and now he's realizing you're not. You'll know he's an adult when he forgives you for it."

"And if he runs away again?" Vayne asked. "What does that make him?"

"A pirate, in my experience."

Releasing a groan, the emperor wearily raised a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and rubbing them. "I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong here. I don't know what more I can do for him."

"Sometimes it's best to just do nothing," said Cid. "It's an unfortunate fact about other people: you can't control them."

Vayne shook his head. "I just don't want him to get hurt because of me."

"He won't," Cid assured him. "You can't let this distract you. We've got bigger fish to fry."

He nodded. "I suppose you'll be wanting to join the search for our princess."

Cid smiled. "She'll lead us straight to the Sun Cryst, after all."

"Then I hope you will do me a favor and keep watch on Gabranth—see that he does as he's been ordered."

"You sure know how to have a good time, Vayne."

Vayne bit back his exhaustion and shook his head faintly. "Just see that the princess gets what she's earned."

"And the nethicite?" Cid asked.

"What you will."

"Hmph. You're beginning to sound like your father."

Vayne almost growled, a ragged rumble seeking to escape his chest, but he did not move, kept his eyes trained on Cid, and was disappointed that he couldn't frighten the man, that seemingly nothing could frighten the man.

Cid released a sigh and kept talking: "I know you're sore about Larsa, but you've got to focus on your country right now. Nethicite is our only advantage—we can't let her use it against us."

"I realize how important it is to you," Vayne replied, "but the paranoia is really becoming too high a price for a mere weapon. Larsa was right—the more they fear us, the harder they'll try to destroy us."

"Is your mind really changed so easily?"

"We can hardly even use it, Cid. You saw what happened at Nabudis. Magicite may not be as powerful, but at least it's predictable."

"And widely available," Cid scoffed. "I see your point, though, and I assure you there's no need for concern. I've already figured out how to contain it; now it's just a matter of building big enough canons to have some real effect. I wouldn't have wasted so much of your time and money on this endeavor if I hadn't been certain of its pay-off."

Vayne rolled his eyes. "And the Sun Cryst?"

"Without proper data, I can only venture a guess. Venat calls it a blessing and a curse. Whoever controls that blasted rock controls the one we live on." He paused, seeming to finally notice the glare that the emperor was giving him—that he always gave him when he spoke of Venat—and with a shrug he asked, "What?"

Vayne blinked slowly, hands behind his back. Cid would never admit to giving a damn. Vayne's done his best to convince the doctor that even if he were mad, it's certainly an enviable sort of lunacy, but sometimes—sometimes Vayne can barely stand it, however profitable it may be in the long run.

Suddenly, Cid turned, looking to his side and speaking, eyes fixed on the empty air. "Ah! We were just talking about you." Another pause ensued, Vayne knowing better than to interrupt, and at length the doctor, an approving expression lighting his face, continued. "Taken the bait already, have they?" He looked to Vayne. "The princess has been given her treaty blade. Once Venat takes it from her, it will be yours."

"And how exactly is Venat going to do this?" he asked rubbing his temples.

"Honestly, Vayne, why must you let everything trouble you so much? She hasn't led us wrong yet, has she?"

"Look, Cid. You know I wouldn't question your methods except out of genuine concern—"

He trailed off then, eyes catching on a faint disturbance in the air between them. A flutter disrupted the darkness, and a figure appeared as if only a reflection in the black depths of a lake. Translucent flashes occasionally denoted the surface of the creature, but at no point could the entirety of its being be seen, an ornate void, a darker shade of darkness, only the dim glow of its eyes rendering its face visible amid the shadows that engulfed it.

Cid studied him, followed his gaze. He looked confused, but upset. "Can you—" He pointed to the portal of motion at his side as it swirled and thickened like a Mist devoid of light. "Can you see her?"

He realized he was squinting and consciously forced himself to stop. He stepped back, placed a hand on the hilt of his father's sword. "Cid," he said slowly. "What is that?"

Cid clapped his hands together and clasped them, a grin overtaking his face. "You can see her!"

The shimmering figure drifted forward and rasped in a sexless voice, "Fondest greetings, Excellency. I do hope you'll forgive my distrust of you before this night—it is through unyielding caution, after all, that I have manifested our dreams all these years."

Vayne retreated another step. "Venat?"

Cid closed the gap between them and stood at Vayne's side, slapping him on the back. "Well, it's about time!"

"I am no cause for fear," the creature assured him. "This may be our first meeting, but we have long been allies in this war."

"Without her to lead us," Cid added, "Larsa and I would never have made such progress in such time."

"You talk to Larsa?" Vayne asked more quickly than he intended.

"No," it answered, shifting subtly between translucent and opaque and at last settling on a blend of the two. "Though not for any offense on his part. For all his intelligence, your brother is too skeptical, though I feel this a wondrous boon to his gift for free thought. He would not trust my advice."

"She's been using me as her mouthpiece," said Cid. "Balthier wasn't too fond of it, but Larsa's a little more open-minded."

Vayne's eyes darkened, his hand at his sword eased but unmoved. "I want him left out of this. He'll have nothing to do with it anymore as it is."

Something like a sigh entered the voice—something soothing, that coaxed credence in spite of its haggard undertones. "Do not let the boy trouble you. He means well, but he is simply too naive to fully understand his actions. He will be disappointed to hear of the princess's true intent, but it is a lesson he must learn, and one you have arranged to teach him in a most sympathetic manner. You are as perfect a brother as any could hope for."

Vayne studied Venat, his eyes sliding over its form with persistent suspicion, but his hand at last fell slowly from the hilt of his sword. "I—can only hope you're right, I'm afraid."

"She always is," Cid stepped in. "Venat's given us the edge that we've always needed—that we've always deserved."

"No," Venat intoned in a pleasant hum, "the power of manufactured nethicite is the power of humans—a weapon forged by the wisdom of those who would challenge the gods themselves: a fitting blade for a true Dynast King. My council merely guided your able hand."

"Dynast King?" Vayne asked.

"Raithwall did but pretend the title—a cur begging scraps from his master's table. You on the Imperial throne, Ivalice now hails her true ruler. You, Vayne, shall defy the will of the gods, and see the reigns of history back in humanity's hands. The new Ivalice holds no place for the name Dalmasca. The stain of Raithwall's blood shall be washed clean from history's weave."

"Quite the flatterer, isn't she?" Cid added with a grin.

"I allot only what praise is due," Venat replied. "Through power of mortals, the stones did you perfect—so much accomplished in six fleeting years: humanity's fervor over all obstacles prevailing."

"Our lives are much too short," said Cid. "You undying may waste long centuries away, but we, I fear, are bound by much shorter leashes."

"Just so," Vayne added, "had we more time, we might have availed ourselves of more prudent measures…"

Cid laughed a little, gripping the emperor's shoulder. "Your greatest work still lies before you. Not lightly will the Occuria allow you to steal control of our lives back from them."

"Indeed," Venat agreed. "What claim does Gerun have on history's reigns, seated on throne immortal, rent from time?"

Vayne shook his head, noting the tremble in his hands, the slithering discomfort in his spine. "Gerun?"

Venat fluttered slightly, a ripple of consciousness against the very air that Vayne breathed. "One of my kind, by birth alone, I assure you," it said softly, fading from vision into the shadows. "For your ascendance, Vayne, I offer prayer. May you attain all that which is your due. For too long have your deeds gone unrewarded."


	61. Chapter LX

_LX._

They reached Balfonheim by dusk, but the docks seemed to writhe from the _Strahl's_ vantage point, pirates rushing to ships of the sea and sky alike, loading and launching, scurrying along every walkway like a cluster of ants. Fran looked to Balthier, and he returned her gaze, but they did not speak. The princess had spent the entire journey in the cabin, and had emerged when the engines slowed, but she offered no commentary, either.

The scene in Reddas's mansion was no less hectic—his first mate showed them to his office, but they could hear his voice blaring the moment they entered the house. He was ordering all ships in the water when they arrived, and the last of the pirates heeding him scrambled out of sight just as the princess and her cortege entered the room.

"Our armada ran afoul of bad water near the Ridorana Cataract," he told them. "All engines jammed—trouble with a thick Mist, it seems."

Their escort exited, closing the door at his back, and Reddas crossed the room to the sideboard.

Fran folded her arms. "Your luck would be reversed if you would entrust it to nethicite-powered airships."

Balthier smirked, and Reddas regarded her with one brow raised. "Reversed and multiplied if I had entrusted it to a Viera," he replied. "But what does it matter? Magicite engines are as good to us now as sky to a fish." He raised the decanter of whiskey. "Who will drink with me? I dare say we all need it."

A light struck Balthier's eyes, but the princess spoke firmly: "We'll keep our heads clear, thank you. But don't let us stop you."

Reddas barked out a laugh, pouring himself a glass. "Well spoken, Highness. Now, tell me what happened in Giruvegan. You don't look as though you enjoyed the trip."

"You can say that again," Penelo groaned.

He swirled the whiskey. "Cid was false?"

"Yes," said Ashe. "But we may have gotten some idea of what he's after."

"Let me guess: something pertaining to a tower on a distant shore?"

She cocked her head. "You're well-informed."

"A man in my profession must be," he replied with a grin. He returned to his desk and leaned against it, gesturing for the others to sit. None did. "I have only the words, however," he went on. "You seem to have the experience."

The princess shifted her weight, eyes glancing away before returning to his. "We met a—creature of some kind. It called itself Gerun, and said it represented a race called the Occuria. They seem to have had a nethicite source—an enormous stone they called the Sun Cryst. They let King Raithwall cut shards from it to bring peace to Ivalice in his time, supposedly. They've asked that I now do the same."

"Peace through nethicite?" Reddas scoffed, leaning back and gesturing with his glass. "Through the most powerful source of violence we know?"

Ashe clenched her teeth and turned her eyes to the floor.

"We are skeptical as well," said Basch. "They say peace can only be achieved if both empires are conquered and their royal houses wiped out."

"They want her to kill Larsa," Penelo clarified.

"It's more than just that," said Fran. "They say that if the princess becomes ruler of Ivalice, there will be no war at all."

"By force, I'm sure," Reddas replied.

Fran nodded. "That was our interpretation as well."

"Don't you realize what this means?" Reddas asked. "The deifacted nethicite was only a fragment. Its power was only a fraction of a greater whole. And these Occuria—I know nothing of them, and care to know even less. Surely such strength is not meant to be controlled by mortals."

Francesca placed a hand on her hip. "We are inclined to agree," she said, "but we can see no other way. We think the Sun Cryst is the source of all nethicite's power. If we might break it with Raithwall's sword, no new stone may be born, and the Dusk Shard would be spent after one use—powerless for many lifetimes. As for the manufactured nethicite, who can say?"

"There is another way," Balthier added. "We use Gerun's sword to cut a new stone from the Cryst—use that to fight the Dusk Shard _and_ the manufactured stones—then stop short of world domination and use Raithwall's sword to send the Sun Cryst back to hell where it belongs."

"Hmm…" Reddas took a drink, then lowered the glass to his opposite side and rested his chin in his hand, smoothing his beard. "All this talk of fighting…Already the nethicite influences your minds."

"Nonsense," Ashe growled. "Whichever route we take, it will end with the destruction of all nethicite."

"Will it, now? You favor the second choice, then, is that it? Destroy the Empire, then destroy the nethicite? What madness leads you to think you will truly follow such a path?"

"Do you deliberately mock me or can you just not help it?"

"A little of both, I suppose."

Penelo stepped in. "Either way, we have to find the Sun Cryst first. 'Tower on a distant shore,' remember?"

"Now there I can help you," Reddas replied.

The princess was still glowering, but Basch laid a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned back faintly, seemed to ease, but not relax.

"I saw something similar at Draklor," Reddas went on. "The Naldoan Sea, the Ridorana Cataract, and the Pharos Lighthouse. I sent my fleet to investigate, and caught nothing but trouble."

"A lighthouse?" Balthier asked.

"I admit it seemed nonsense at first," he said. "There's no land in that sea, let alone civilization. But if this floating island of yours exists, it seems as likely that the lighthouse does as well. But mind you I have been wrong in the past."

"But this time you've got Cid's backing," Balthier sighed.

"The Mist that becalmed your ships is a clearer sign than any we might hope for," Basch added with a nod. "Whether the Sun Cryst is there or not, at least we have a starting point."

"Then we will set out immediately," Ashe replied.

"Not so fast, Highness," said Reddas. "The sun has already fallen. If you're to go in search of such power, you must do so well-rested." Ashe glared at him once more, but rather than match it, he gave her a smirk and continued: "Stay your glares, Highness, I beg you. I meant no offense. On the contrary, I insist you stay here for the night. I can offer you far better room and board than Balthier can, I assure you."

Ashe cast a sideward glance to Balthier, who nodded his approval, and then returned her gaze to Reddas. "If you insist."

The soaring ceilings of Reddas' mansion grew otherworldly as the light fell. A few magicite lamps lit the stairways, but the rest of the house relied on candles and oil lamps, which cast warmth over the floorboards, but failed to reach the rafters. Reddas seemed all too pleased to host royalty, even if the royalty in question was without crown or country at present. He offered her a personal maid and butler and guards, but she declined them all—twice—and offered only the barest smile when he opened a door to a lavishly furnished room on the top floor of the manse, it's windows overlooking the sea.

"For Your Highness," he declared, gesturing her inward. "The finest bed in all of Balfonheim."

She halted in the doorway. "And the others?"

"Downstairs."

"Hm." She nodded, and the corners of her mouth pinched upward a bit more tightly. "Thank you, Reddas. Basch will stay with me."

Basch blinked, turning to face her, leaning out slightly, but she ignored his expression, looping her golden arm around his and pulling him in.

"Goodnight," she told the others.

Fran nodded, Balthier mirroring it, though she thought she detected a sigh smothered in his chest.

"Goodnight," Penelo replied with a wave.

The princess closed the door, and Balthier turned to Reddas. "If we sleep downstairs, you do, too."

Reddas' face broadened into a deep-set grin, and he bowed his head slightly, one arm gliding outward. "My precise intention."

Fran resisted a smirk—of all the humans in the world, she found Archadians most amusing: their food outrageously complicated, their speech intricately detailed, and their etiquette charmingly misplaced among the likes of Reddas and Balthier.

Reddas settled Penelo and Balthier into smaller quarters on the first floor, but turned to Fran calmly once their doors were closed.

"It is my understanding that human hospitality is barely shy of an insult to Viera," he said, and Fran smiled.

"I will be comfortable on the roof."

And she was, the stars not quite as bright here as they were in Eruyt, but at least they were visible, no ceiling to block them, no walls to limit their expanse—and no engines to drown out their songs. But all the same, she struggled to sleep. So silly, these humans, that they lived such short lives and seemed eager to find new ways to whittle down even those few hours. At times, it seemed that all they knew how to do was fight, and the richest and most powerful among them seemed the most eager to struggle for more, and Fran had initially only worried for the princess because of her effect on Balthier, but now—

She had heard tales of Doctor Cid's madness—from Reddas, not Balthier—but she had imagined them exaggerated, embellished; she did not understand how a simple stone could make a man fall this far, but now she had seen it with her own eyes, and if these beings were real, if the ripples of light and Mist that had pierced her senses at Giruvegan were as powerful as they claimed—

She feared for Ashe. She had grown to admire her, foolish thing though she was. It had become a troubling pattern.

Fran rose and stretched, and looked out over the bay. The lanterns on the ships glowed softly, scattered petals of the distant city's greater luminescence, and the moon was bright, full and low—the sort of moon that would mean a festival in Eryut. She walked along the ridge of the roof, standing at its peak and gazing outward.

The Occuria: Mist beings, by the smell of them—by the breath of them. Life without body, energy without matter. The Viera had stories of such things, but they were fables, never told in earnest, never intended literally. The Occuria were little better than phantoms, from what she could tell—surprisingly impotent, despite their supposed immortality. Venat had apparently broken all vows just to speak with Cid, to reach out. It did not sound like much of a godhood to Fran.

But the stone they spoke of—even without evidence, she believed it was real, and that worried her more than the creatures themselves. The Sun Cryst, wherever it was, whatever it was—it would likely crack the world in two, and the princess seemed deluded enough to let it, to be its instrument. The stories her sisters had told her had no stone, only the core of the world and the spirits that churned there, worked up through the roots of the world and bloomed into being, some within this realm, some within the other. And there were sometimes tales of the veil between thinning—of crystalline voice beyond sight, in the Mist—but never had they interfered with the beings of Ivalice; never had they dared to touch, or offered promise of anything touchable. All the old stories, all the old myths and their power returning to life and truth, all because Doctor Cid Bunansa started hearing voices and actually listened to them.

A sigh drew Fran's attention—not a sigh, on second thought, but merely a breath; humans sighed much more heavily than that. She turned in its direction and slid down the slope of the roof, perching on the corner, one hand on the gutter, one knee planted beside it. Reddas stood on a terrace below, another eave between them onto which she promptly leaped. She landed with scarcely a scrape, but Reddas turned all the same, one hand on the hilt of a dagger his kept always at his hip.

"I seem to be losing my touch," Fran told him.

He loosened, hand leaving the weapon, and allowed her a smile. "At this age, I'm surprised to still have mine."

Fran hopped down onto the terrace. The light from the bay was brighter here, an orange glow overtaking her. "It's past midnight," she told him.

"I hardly need a nanny," he replied.

"You will not let the princess go after the Sun Cryst."

His expression was indignant, but she only blinked back at him. For all their strangeness and complexity, humans were easy to read.

"It's in my best interest to befriend Her Highness, you know? And to remove Vayne from power. I pay him handsomely for Balfonheim's sovereignty—"

"And your reputation has begun to suffer because of it," said Fran.

Reddas paused for a moment, his eyes hard, his jaw tight. "So why should I interfere?" he asked. He was trying to smile, trying to look at ease. He was failing. "Why should I get in the princess's way?"

Fran was still. "Because this is bigger than Balfonheim."

And he blinked then, a tiny gesture that carried an enormous admission. All pretense fell, and Fran spoke again:

"You must let her go. You must trust that Balthier will not let her fail."

"And what will he do if she does?" His voice was strong, and he restrained it only barely. "Do you expect him to stop her? After he's gone along this far—for this long?"

"If he doesn't, I will."

He huffed, turning away from her. "So many people you want me to trust. So many chances to blow the world apart…"

"It is not only Ashelia's test to pass," said Fran.

And this seemed to calm him, his hands gripping the balcony's railing, his weight pressed down on his wrists until all the muscles of his arms rolled and bulged and finally relaxed. Fran stepped closer, neared his side.

"Come with us."

He looked at her.

"Tomorrow," she added.

And a bitter grin turned up one corner of his mouth. "Her Highness will not approve."

"She is full of surprises." And then: "And I will speak with her if she is not."

"I may not behave as courteously as you would have me," said Reddas.

"I am not worried about you."

He let out a laugh. "You know my greatest weakness?"

She tilted her head.

"Optimism," he said. "Pure and unrelenting. It will kill me yet—just wait."

Fran looked out to the ships in the harbor, most of them settling in at dock. "Only if it's misplaced, I should think."

"Ah, yes, and how else shall an old fool like me place it? I'll trust your princess; I'll trust your pirate."

"You'll go to bed and make no trouble for us?"

He laughed again, turning and leaning back, one hip pressed into the railing. "You ask such impossible things of me. But you have my word—no trouble, unless Her Highness makes it for herself."

Fran nodded, the faintest smirk casting an inflection over her words: "I will call that enough."

And for a moment she felt not too different from the Occuria—struggling tirelessly to save the pathetic little humans from themselves—but she had seen over the years that the stubbornness that plagued the species very often had a hand in its finer accomplishments. For all their immaturity, for all their selfishness, for all their ignorance, the humans had a way of working together that had kept them the rulers of Ivalice for uncountable ages. She looked out to the city, glowing in the distance, and hoped that nothing would change.


	62. Chapter LXI

_LXI._

The rafters hung in dark purple shadows overhead, Basch's breath measured and heavy from the floor where he had insisted on sleeping. Ashe lay in the enormous bed, staring upward into the dark until the silhouettes of the room clarified before her eyes. Azelas's sword lay flat across her lap, her fingers tracing the lettering on its blade slowly.

The days had been strange: first, the elusive intrigue of Archades, of trying to imagine Gabranth in such a place and finding herself only able to imagine Basch, as though they were the same person, as though some grand ruse continued to pull her strings while she—heartsick—allowed it. And then Giruvegan, silvery clouds whispering her name, the rogue Venat maligned and disdained, but not present to offer its own defense. The murmur of her name had echoed off the stone, cutting its path through the Mist, a mocking vapor inundated with Rasler's presence that wiggled its way through her gradually like a worm burrowing into a corpse.

She couldn't sleep.

For a moment or two, she blamed Balthier: she had grown accustomed to the momentum of the _Strahl_ , the hum of its engines, and the actual quiet seemed nothing like quiet to her now. But then she blamed herself—a sentiment too common and too easily welcomed in the dim hours of the morning—and rolled over the mattress's edge, onto her feet, tensing only briefly to lean Azelas's sword against the wall between the Occurian-wrought twins. Basch rolled onto his face and fell still once more.

She padded through the house on silent feet, the carpeted stairs cushy beneath her bare toes. There were several rooms on the lower floor, but only two of them were closed off, the high wooden doors shut tightly. She hesitated outside the first, pressing her ear to it and listening, and then did the same at the second, though she had no idea what she expected to hear. Finally, she knocked, and received no answer. The knob was cold—brass—and clicked beneath her hand as she turned it, and the room beyond was dark, but she recognized Balthier's boots at the foot of the bed, and so let the door swing and ventured inward.

He slept on his side, one hand pushed up under the pillow—he kept a knife tucked away beneath whatever he used as a pillow, she had noticed over the course of their travels.

"Balthier?" she whispered.

He seemed to wince, but only shifted and calmed once more, so she pressed her lips together, subduing her frustration if only for her growing exhaustion of expressing it, and placed a hand on his shoulder and shook it.

"Balthier, wake up."

He opened his eyes, focusing with intrigue on the figure before him, and she realized for the first time that she had brought a blanket along—she tightened it around her shoulders.

Balthier's expression muddled, and he mumbled a half-conscious, "Huh?"

Ashe hushed him. "Come with me."

He cast a disparaging glance at the clock across the room—towering, polished, it's burnished face glinting through the shadows. "It's four o'clock in the morning, woman!"

"Where's Rasler?"

"What?"

"My ring. Where did you put it?"

And he paused, studying her, before whipping back the covers and rolling to his feet. "No way am I missing this."

They stood out on the dock for almost an hour. She paced, and whispered, and chewed her fingers. He watched, arms folded, telling her to calm down. At one point, she stood at the very end of the dock, barefoot and shivering, holding the ring out over the water and biting her lip, but felt only thin, and cold, and childishly unsteady. Her feet turned slightly inward, toes curling over each other, and there was a feral heat behind her eyes that could have easily melted to tears had he criticized her for her failure. But when she let her arm drop back down to her side, ring still clutched in her hand, he only picked up her blanket from the planks where it had fallen, and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders.

"Alright," he said, "coffee or liquor?"

And she released a short, bitter laugh—almost a gasp.

So they sat across from each other on the floor of Reddas' office, drinking coffee with a shot of amaretto in almost total silence. The sun breached the sea where it met the sky and set its rays through the window, illuminating patterns on the floor, somehow enlivening her senses like a slow thaw until all the room felt as though it were touching her, the grain of the wood, the pile of the carpet, the slick surface of the polished leather chair behind the desk. She uncrossed her legs and tucked them beneath her, then clutched the blanket tighter. Balthier's eyes were golden in the dawn, and more inquiring than usual, but there were creases of sleeplessness beneath them, and he gave no voice to their questions.

"I'm going to be Queen," she said at length.

"Isn't that a good thing?" he replied.

"Queens do not consort with pirates."

"So?"

She released a sigh, staring down into her empty mug. "I want to free Dalmasca. I truly do. But I want things to stay as they are. I want you and Fran flying the _Strahl_ , and Penelo asking too many questions, and Basch getting in my way and telling me to be careful. I want this to last forever."

"You want to run away."

"I suppose I do."

"It doesn't solve anything," he said. "Really, it just postpones things."

Her eyes fell to the floor, and he shifted uncomfortably and spoke again: "Listen, Princess. The only thing worse than living in the past is living in the future. You should be Queen, but that doesn't mean you will be. Vayne could very well crush the Resistance and take all of Ivalice for himself. You could just as easily end up working for Reddas—or for me, if you get your ass in gear. Or we could all die before lunch."

She fought against a faint smile, and he continued with an almost inaudible sigh:

" _History is built by our own hands._ That's his favorite line. Now, if my crazy old man won't stand by and watch the Occuria's stones shape our world, you shouldn't either. You're going to end this. You're going to do all sorts of great things, and go down in history as the Dynast Queen you were born to be. And every so often, I'll drop by and kidnap you, just to keep things interesting."

She continued to stare downwards, a pathetic attempt to hide her embarrassment, and he rose to his feet, extending a hand. She took it only long enough to let him pull her up, but he noticed her fumbling as she struggled to wrap the blanket about her frame, and took her empty mug and set it aside with his, airily letting loose a comment about her being a "royal pain in the highness" even to herself, and receiving an equally biting response.

She met his eyes for a moment, the same coppery shade as the wood of Reddas' desk in the morning sunlight, and suddenly thought to herself that he looked almost Dalmascan: no vest, no belt, no boots, mussed hair, rolled cuffs, half-buttoned shirt—the smooth lines of Archadia blurred and eased into something soft and loose and comfortable, every wisp of the Empire erased.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Enjoying the view?"

And she looked away, biting her lip to hold back a smile, then held the ring out to him in her open palm, and he seemed to hesitate for some fraction of a moment in taking it back. He reached out, but then paused briefly and laid his hand on hers, flattening the ring between them, gingerly gripping her fingers and turning them—and he kissed her hand, very carefully, seeming to half-expect a punch in the gut. It didn't come, however, and he slowly released her, sliding the ring into his own hand as he did so. She stared at him, breathless, and with his other hand he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, then told her to go back to bed—Basch would have a heart attack if he awoke to find her missing.

She obeyed, but still found sleep impossible. The sun flickered through the drapes, lighting the dust that puffed in the air, mesmerizing her as she laid clammy and still on her back, tenderly rubbing her knuckles—hoping to find some trace of the kiss. Eventually, she slid out of bed and scooted toward Basch—flopped in a pile of blankets on the floor—and nestled herself against his side. He stirred, but did not wake, whispering a name she'd never heard—his wife's, she guessed, which did little to settle the flutter in her heart. After an hour or so he jolted back, shocked to find her so close, apologizing even as she rose and readied herself for the journey.

The others had woken already, and she wondered if Balthier had even slept after seeing her off. He stood by the window with Fran and Reddas, regaling Penelo with some tale of the good old days, gesturing grandly to a map on the wall, but Penelo lost all interest upon the princess's arrival, bounding giddily toward her and ordering Basch to wake her up sooner next time. Balthier and Fran each gave Ashelia the gaze she had come to expect from them—calm, ready, as though asking _where next?_ And Reddas granted her a respectful nod that carried with it an air of apology, then said that he would accompany Her Highness, if she did not object. In such a mood, she couldn't.


End file.
